


The One Where Knock Out Gets Away With Murder

by fascinationex



Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [29]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Id Fic, Knock Out is a rich drunk trophy wife and also a doctor, Loneliness, Organised AND disorganised crime, Rule 63, Starscream is a serial black widow, Wakes & Funerals, but then.... LESS loneliness...!, killing your wife, this is barely even tf fanfic at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25136077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fascinationex/pseuds/fascinationex
Summary: A DEEPLY self indulgent humanformers AU fic about meeting the girl of your wistful poolside fantasies, daytime drunkenness and, also, murder.
Relationships: Background Megatron/Starscream, Breakdown/Knock Out, Knock Out & Starscream (Transformers), Past Knock Out/Pharma (Transformers)
Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311599
Comments: 283
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This might be the most aggressively self-indulgent thing I've ever posted.

Knock Out was on her fourth drink of the morning when the door bell rang for the gate. She wasn’t expecting anyone. The only person who visited with any regularity was Starscream, and she had been embroiled in meetings with her solicitor and accountant for weeks now, and had not needed either Knock Out’s company or her expertise. 

She wasn't dressed. She wasn’t fit for company. And Pharma, of course, was rarely home during daylight.

Her face was… mostly done made up. Nothing too dramatic—she never wore false eyelashes or dramatic eye makeup anymore. She touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of her ring finger, removing a smudge of hard-candy red lipstick. Then she got up, slung a silk robe over her underthings, and headed down the broad, curving stairs, vaguely muddling at her drink with its celery stick as she went.

She went past the gilt-framed mirror and the huge, marble-topped table propping up one of Pharma’s hideous sculptures and made her way down to the intercom, an inconspicuous little box just before the entry to the front parlour.

The front camera view next to the intercom revealed a tall, unfamiliar woman and the sounds of an idling truck. Hmm. Either lost, or a delivery.

Knock Out held down the button to speak. 

“Hello. Is there something I can help you with?” she asked patiently. Her voice came out low and husky. She hadn’t spoken to anyone yet today. Pharma had been gone before she got up, which, honestly, was her preference. 

Outside, distorted by the camera’s view, the woman jumped.

“Oh, erm.” She looked around like she was expecting to be able to see a camera somewhere. “Hi, I’m here to deliver a… art? A sculpture?”

She sounded like she wasn’t entirely sure what she was delivering, which, ironically, made it that much more believable to Knock Out. 

She didn’t remember Pharma saying anything about a new sculpture, but that didn’t mean anything—she loved art, the more pretentious and expensive the better, and if their enormous and sprawling house was cluttered with one ugly sculpture, it was cluttered with fifty.

“I suppose you’d better come through then.” She hit the button to release the gate and heard it begin to open through the speaker before she turned away to belt up her robe more securely and find some shoes. The shoes she’d worn to work were still next to the door, a pair of black patent leather stilettos that were sufficiently conservative for her consultations. They’d do. She wasn’t going hiking.

She opened the front doors and leaned against the frame, watching. The porch was level with the ground floor of the building, but the house was built on a hill, and three broad stone steps led down to the semi-circular drive, which bisected the garden. 

A modest delivery truck with a big, all-caps ‘MOTORMASTER’S’ on its side crunched slowly over the white gravel. She relaxed further. It was a small, independent company, which Pharma had a peculiar attachment to due to their swiftness of service—although, Knock Out had met Motormaster once, and she had wondered if fast service was really, ah, _enough_.

But it was Pharma’s art, and they got the job done.

Luckily for Knock Out, the driver today was not the enormous, towering Motormaster with what Knock Out would diplomatically term her equally huge ‘personality’. Instead, the woman who emerged and stepped down from the cab was a stranger.

She was taller than she’d looked on the camera view, and her dark blue tank top exposed her arms, a solid stretch of tanned skin and lean functional muscle. Knock Out was briefly but intensely distracted. 

"Good morning, I'm—" The delivery lady finally looked up the short set of steps to see Knock Out and paused. "I'm... Um." 

"Good morning," Knock Out said. It was distantly possible that the cute delivery woman was stunned by her overwhelming beauty—good taste occurred in all sorts of strange places—but it seemed more likely that she was surprised by the robe and heels. 

Or... Knock Out glanced down, realised her hands were still full of cocktail. Yes, it was possible that the cute delivery woman was not stunned by her overwhelming beauty, but actually just judging her for her 10:30 AM cocktail. Hmm. Rude.

Knock Out decided to run with it instead of giving into embarrassment. It had celery and tomatoes. It was practically a salad. She plucked her celery stick out of the glass and took a delicate bite from the bottom. 

“Can I help you?” she drawled.

The delivery woman made a little noise in her throat. It could have meant anything. Knock Out chose not to let it bother her. Sometimes, if you couldn’t impress people, it could be fun to just make them uncomfortable instead.

"I'm, um, Breakdown," said, apparently, Breakdown. She had large eyes, a hazy brown so pale they looked almost yellow in the morning light, and a mess of dark, careless hair. 

And just, really nice shoulders. Mmm. She was solid under that tank top and her old jeans, too—they were tight around her thighs, revealing a soft swell of muscle. She could probably have snapped Knock Out in half. If you were into, ah, that kind of thing. Knock Out wasn’t sure if she was into that, but her stomach did a strange swoop and clench at the thought, an odd and pleasant sensation. 

"Mmm-hm. _Lovely_ to meet you," she didn’t try very hard, and subsequently very much failed, to make it sound anything but suggestive. Her tone nevertheless seemed lost on Breakdown, who appeared to be focusing quite hard on getting words out. 

Knock Out's eyes picked out a scar on the curve of one shoulder, a short straight line. Something had been cut out there. She doubted, given the visibility of the scar and the fact that the woman went to work in a tank top and boots with no makeup, that it had been a cosmetic choice. A cancer, maybe?

"And you're—that is, you're, ah, you're our customer’s wife? Mrs..."

"Doctor," she clarified, trying not to sound too short about it. _Doctor_. "Knock Out. Pharma’s partner." 

"Doctor, oh, I—sorry, I just," said Breakdown, and then did not actually finish any of those sentences.

Knock Out suspected they all ended in 'I did not consider that someone drinking in her pyjamas before 11am on a Tuesday might be a professional kind of anything’.

Breakdown cleared her throat, and then looked back at Knock Out, who was not so drunk she failed to notice the glance lingering on her chest before it got railroaded back to her face. Mm- _hmm_. "Doctor Knock Out, nice to meet you. I'm here to deliver your sculpture," Breakdown said, more firmly. "I need you to sign for it and show me where you'd like me to put it."

If she hadn't started out with awkward stammering, Knock Out might not have found the emergence of this confidence cute—but she had, and she did. She dropped the remains of her celery stick in her glass and put it at the top of the heavy stone banister that spanned the length of the steps down to the gravel.

"Do you have any paperwork for the order?" The words came out evenly. There. Totally sober... sounding. Totally sober-sounding. "I'm afraid I'm... out of the loop."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to know about my stupid humanformers in this universe I'm cardio-vore on tumblr and fascination_ex on twitter ~~and I'll scream about them for hours if prompted even slightly~~


	2. Chapter 2

It actually wasn’t a great morning for Breakdown.

For a start, it was supposed to be her day off, but Wildrider had called and said she was sick (by ‘sick’, Breakdown assumed she meant ‘hungover’, but wearily chose not to comment on it). So Breakdown had been woken at 6:30 AM by Motormaster calling her, which was never a great start to any day.

Then, foggy with sleep, she’d somehow tipped her coffee on her shirt by accident. She’d been stuck doing Wildrider’s work in just the tank top she’d been wearing under it. Her ugly ‘MOTORMASTER’S’ polo shirt remained crumpled in the passenger seat.

It wasn’t really professional, she guessed, because she’d already gotten a few odd looks from people to whom she delivered. As long as none of them complained about it, it would probably be fine.

Pharma was the sort of person who would complain about someone else's shirt to their boss.

The delivery was her last stop, and she was looking forward to getting it done before midday and handing the rest of Wildrider’s work on to Drag Strip. But Breakdown had met Pharma before—a slight, pointed, condescending and exacting person, who seemed to expect the people around her to anticipate her whims for very little reward. She’d been… kind of mean, actually.

“The pay’s good, so just act like she’s _not_ a giant pain in your ass and do whatever she fucking tells you,” had been Motormaster’s advice, while she'd been frantically scribbling Wildrider's schedule on the back of an envelope that morning.

Since Breakdown got paid the same no matter what kind of behaviour she tolerated, she didn’t find this very compelling. What she did find compelling was that Motormaster was bigger than her, and a lot meaner than her, and would probably do something horrible to her if she didn’t do it right.

The big grand gate came up kilometers from the doors of the house, barred with decorative cast iron. Breakdown got out for the intercom with a creaking of old seats and a crunch of gravel underfoot.

Where there was an intercom there was usually a camera, but she couldn't spot one.

The drawling voice that answered her really did sound like Pharma as Breakdown remembered her: rich, over-educated, and more impressed with herself than just about anything else on the planet.

It was in Breakdown’s best interests, she figured as she climbed back up and drove through the remote activated gates, to have the paperwork in her hand up front—if nothing else, she could throw it at Pharma and run.

When Breakdown made it, after what seemed like an awful lot of pale gravel driveway, up to the main house, she was already looking at the order information. She didn’t really look up and pay attention until she’d checked over it again.

Then she looked up. 

Whatever polite thing Breakdown had been saying cut off abruptly. Her mouth went completely dry.

It wasn't Pharma at the top of those stairs. 

It was very much not Pharma.

Instead of Pharma, with her ash blonde hair and pointed features and slick tailored suit, it was a woman who Breakdown had apparently interrupted getting dressed for her day today. 

She had pulled on a robe, which belted in sharply at the waist, but it was kind of fighting a losing battle to contain the rest of the figure it was supposedly covering. A long spill of softly-curling, dark red hair did a better job at obscuring the lace of the bra she was wearing, but it still peeked through, stark against her pale skin. 

_Oh no_ , thought Breakdown, helpless and a little panicked, as her palms immediately broke out in a sweat, _what, she’s **so hot**_.

Several blank staring seconds later (while her brain shrilled alarm bells and her guts swooned helplessly), Breakdown also noticed the drink in her hand. Hot Lady was probably a little drunk.

She cleared her throat—for the second time—then made an effort to look at her face (made up, perfectly symmetrical, and unfortunately, knee-wobblingly beautiful) and mumbled an introduction.

"Lovely to meet you," said the lady, watching Breakdown through her heavy-lidded eyes. 

She bit the end of her celery stick. It broke with a crisp snap. Breakdown watched her avidly, feeling like maybe she shouldn't be, like watching her full, painted lips close around a celery stick was kind of... vouyeristic. 

Her teeth were very white, and her lipstick didn't even smudge.

"And you're—that is, you're, ah,” _Primus almighty please keep it together, Breakdown_ , “—you're our, um, customer’s wife? Mrs..."

" _Doctor_. Knock Out. Pharma’s partner." 

Sometimes names given to a person at birth were _weirdly prophetic._

Breakdown would know.

'You really do not look like a doctor,' Breakdown managed not to say, knowing that it was probably insulting. 

If she'd had to pick a profession for Knock Out from appearance alone, she would probably have just assumed that people paid her to look like that. Like, maybe she was one of those people who stood next to muscle cars and smiled or something.

Instead of saying what she was thinking, Breakdown mumbled an apology, by which Knock Out seemed utterly unmoved. 

Maybe this was being recorded, she thought nervously. Maybe it was for some kind of reality show, and millions of people were going to watch it and laugh at Breakdown. If she let herself, she could almost feel the eyes on her.

_Get a grip_. Breakdown took a deep breath. _Stop staring at your unfairly hot client_ , she reminded herself, _you're supposed to be working_. Even if it was some kind of trick, she could just… do her job. With renewed determination, and her eyes fixed somewhere above Knock Out's shoulder, Breakdown explained why she was there. 

Knock Out sighed. Her shoulders rose and fell, and her chest... also rose and fell. It drew the eye. Breakdown watched. _Oh no._

"Do you have any paperwork for the order?" For someone who'd drunk enough to be swaying a little, she sounded completely focused—which was more focused than Breakdown felt sober, most days. "I'm afraid I'm... out of the loop."

She put her glass down and took a step, like she was going to attempt to come down to Breakdown.

Breakdown glanced at her shoes and looked at the steps.

"Yes, I've got it," she said, and scrambled up the steps before Knock Out could stumble tipsily down them in her heels and break her pretty neck. 

"You are," Knock Out said, suddenly forced to look up at her, "quite tall." A pause. Her eyes dropped. Rose. Eyelashes fluttered thoughtfully. "Very... _big_."

"I get that a lot," Breakdown agreed, handing over her order form. Breakdown was tall, but Knock Out was also not very tall, which she thought was probably contributory. 

The change in vantage point gave her a view right down Knock Out's cleavage. She wasn't looking, but, also... she was definitely looking. 

Knock Out was still watching her and not the paperwork.

"Do you, erm, need a pen?" she asked desperately.

Doctor Knock Out finally looked down and squinted at the form. "Yes." 

Breakdown fetched her one. "Do you want to see it before you sign?"

"Not really," she admitted, leaning on the railing next to her glass. "If it's not what she wanted, that's my esteemed partner's problem.” She sighed again and looked up at Breakdown. “Where's the line?" 

Breakdown hesitated, and wondered if it was a good idea to ask her if she could actually read right now. But these rich people could get very upset about that sort of thing. "Erm, right... here," she pointed at it.

"Wonderful," said Knock Out, in a tone that suggested she couldn't wait for it to be over, and scrawled something that did not even slightly resemble any language known to man. So... doctor: confirmed. 

She looked back up at Breakdown, and met her eyes for a second. Knock Out’s pupils were huge, black and bottomless in her big dark eyes. She smiled, and then her long, dark eyelashes fluttered down, and her gaze fell to Breakdown’s hands—it took the scenic route, though, lingering on her mouth and her throat and the lean muscle of her bare arms. 

Breakdown’s face went very hot. 

“Mmm, yes, wonderful,” Knock Out added, pointedly, for emphasis, and in a very different tone. She brushed away a spill of hair, causing one lazily curling end to fall around her face. Its tip touched her lip. 

What was the alcohol content of that drink, Breakdown wondered. 

It felt nice, though. It was thrilling to have someone so _wildly_ out of her league looking at her so intently, even though she was undoubtedly doing it through pretty thick beer goggles.

And even though she was, clearly, someone else’s spouse. 

Right, right.

Breakdown inhaled deeply to sigh.

…she smelled good, all soft and clean and expensive, slightly sweet, and better than… pretty much anything Breakdown had inhaled ever. 

It would definitely have been weird to lean in sniff her hair.

“Did you have somewhere in mind for the sculpture?” Breakdown asked.

“No,” said Knock Out. She glanced up and down Breakdown’s body again, in a way that made Breakdown’s skin prickle and burn. “Let's see if we can't find somewhere suitable for it, shall we?”

_I am being objectified_ , Breakdown thought blankly. 

“You don’t mind carrying it a little for me, do you? You certainly look, ah, strong enough.”

Breakdown _was_ strong enough. For. For a lot of things. 

Anything Knock Out wanted, really. 

_I am enjoying being objectified_ , Breakdown revised. 

“Sure,” she said weakly. 

"Wonderful." Knock Out smiled a narrow, inviting little smile. Her lips were bright red. "Won't you come inside?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knock Out: hhhh... _big_...  
> Breakdown: is this harassment. i need to be sure, can you do it aga—
> 
> * * *
> 
> If you liked something or have a question, feel free to leave me a comment! You can also find me online: 
> 
> [tumbly](https://cardio-vore.tumblr.com)  
> [tweety](https://twitter.com/fascination_ex)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no editing, no betas, ~~we die like useless gays~~

It was pretty immediately obvious that Knock Out neither knew nor cared where the ugly sculpture was actually going to live. She squinted at it as Breakdown hauled the thing out of the back, red lips pursed, eyebrows drawn together. 

Her expression was politely perplexed, but then she opened her mouth and said, “Well. That’s absolutely… hideous.”

It was. It was a relatively large, and quite heavy, piece of bronze work that depicted three babies with the faces of grown and bearded men, apparently contorted in what Breakdown could only assume was meant to be unparalleled suffering. 

Knock Out’s face made her nervous that she’d be asked to take it back to wherever it came from, which was not a conversation Breakdown ever enjoyed having with Motormaster, especially not when it came to clients as rich as Pharma. (And Pharma’s wife, she guessed.)

“I suppose she must like it,” Knock Out murmured dubiously. “Let’s see if we can find somewhere, ah, _out of the way_ , to display it as it no doubt deserves…”

Breakdown followed her inside with some relief—that she wasn’t going to try to send the ugly thing back—and a nervous glance at her own boots. The house was huge, and at least this front room was floored with fancy white marble. Knock Out’s shoes clicked against the flat smooth surface, drawing Breakdown’s eyes to the her long legs and the flex of muscle in her calves when she walked. 

“How about here?” Knock Out asked, leading her into a room to the left. The space was busy and cluttered in an expensive, old-fashioned sort of way, with heavy, elaborate wooden embellishments on the furnishings and tall imposing book cases. A book with _pharmacotherepeutics_ on its cover was on the coffee table. Breakdown wasn’t even sure how to pronounce that. 

These were pretty fancy people, huh. 

Knock Out was smiling at her. Her lips were very red, and the lower one shined like hard candy where she’d licked it.

Breakdown set the sculpture down on—some kind of surface. A credenza? A side board? This house had furniture she didn’t even have names for. But no sooner had she put it down than Knock Out, still smiling at her, insisted she pick it up again and take it somewhere else. 

This pattern repeated itself several times, and Breakdown really began to wonder if Knock Out was… making fun of her in some way? Or perhaps just seeing how long Breakdown’s patience would last?

And then the fourth time she said, “Hm, no,” and “Do you think you could perhaps pick that back up for me?” Breakdown turned toward her crossly and discovered that Knock Out… had retained possession of her pen. 

This wasn’t what she’d intended to discover, but it was the first and most obvious thing she noticed. Its end was resting gently on the curve of her soft-looking, painted lower lip, a position of some envy, where she held it quite absently as she watched Breakdown. 

Her eyes were very much glued to Breakdown’s arms and shoulders. They dropped when she turned, down to her chest, her hips, the gentle curve of her belly, the swell of muscle in her thighs. It was not a subtle look. Even Breakdown, who sometimes misinterpreted people’s intentions when they paid her any attention at all, could not fail to notice.

She looked completely fascinated. Her face, beneath that matte layer of makeup, was flushed right across her cheekbones. In the second Breakdown looked, her teeth closed closed gently on the end of the pen. 

All thoughts of being cross disappeared somehow like smoke on a breeze at the realisation that Knock Out was just… tipsily watching her pick the stupid thing up and put it down again because she wanted to _see her do it_. 

It was sort of cute, actually. In a, you know, a drunk way.

The thought of Knock Out—in all her mostly-clothed, lush, indulgent state—watching Breakdown for the fun of it almost made her grip on the ugly sculpture feel numb. Breakdown was not very used to being an object of admiration. 

She realised she’d paused too long, watching, when Knock Out said, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Um,” said Breakdown, finding that she was feeling very warm. It probably wasn’t from the physical work. “No, of course not. Where did you say…?”

And then Knock Out smiled at her, another knee-weakening, obliterating little smile, and said, “Over here, if you please—silly, indecisive me,” she added, insincerely. “You will tell me if you need a break, won’t you?”

And Breakdown made some sort of noise that must have been interpreted in some kind of way, and followed her in blind obedience. 

She’d never really realised how much she did not _mind_ following stupid instructions from beautiful women. She mostly just followed Motormaster’s because she was terrifying, not because Breakdown, uh, really wanted to. 

But Knock Out made soft, faintly predatory-sounding noises of satisfaction, which Breakdown felt the _whole way_ down her spine, and she smiled at her and said things like, “Mmm, that’s… just lovely,” even though not even the most generous appraisal of the sculpture could approach ‘lovely’. Breakdown would ordinarily have said the same applied to herself—lovely wasn’t a word she heard often—but it was hard to argue with Knock Out’s slightly drunken confidence. 

“Oh, I think you can just leave it on the table out the front,” she said dismissively, eventually, once Breakdown’s arms had begun to tremble when she lifted the dumb thing. Bronze was heavy. 

Knock Out did not even look at it. Her eyes were fixed on Breakdown. “Wonderful. Tell me, are you always so very …obliging?” 

She said ‘obliging’, but the hesitation before it made Breakdown very aware that obliging was not the word she’d been thinking. Another word hung quietly between them, unspoken: _obedient._

Breakdown waited a little too long, until the sharp sound of Knock Out’s voice had faded even from echoes. The question sent a rush of something undefinable over her skin. 

“Well. Sometimes,” she said, and then immediately felt awash with embarrassment. 

What was _wrong_ with her, she couldn’t just—

“Is that _so_ ,” purred Knock Out, in a voice that had absolutely no business being heard out in public. Holy _shit_. “Fascinating."

There was a short pause. 

Then Knock Out said, “Well, now that you’ve done what you’ve come to do, how do you feel about staying for a drink?”

Breakdown could imagine it, in her mind’s eye. It rose up like intoxicating smoke from the part of her brain that generated _wild, sexy fantasies_ , which, appropriately, seemed to be burning: one drink, a heeled shoe dragging its way up the back of her calf, a hand on her arm. _Vividly_ , she could imagine what it would feel like to put her face in Knock Out’s heavy breasts, how soft and silky she would be, the smell of her skin. 

Her stomach was doing flips. Her mouth was so dry. 

Knock Out, she could tell—she _knew it_ , like she knew her pulse was thumping away in her throat, in her chest, pounding all the way through her body to her feet where she was messing up Knock Out’s pristine marble floor—would not shrink back from telling her what to do, how to make it good for her. There was no way she’d be shy. 

Demands, Breakdown thought, hazily. Knock Out would make _demands_. Purring, shameless demands. And Breakdown _wanted that_ … She was… 

Breakdown was sweating kind of a lot. Inanely, she wondered if she smelled bad. She hoped not?

Breakdown swallowed. It wouldn’t be… right, she thought. Maybe if it was _only_ that Knock Out was married, or _only_ that Knock Out was drunk, perhaps that would be alright—Breakdown had never been a pillar of moral restraint, exactly—but she was both drunk _and_ married, _and_ Pharma was a client, which might cause problems, and—

Knock Out offered her hand. 

It was a nice hand: soft skin, no callouses like Breakdown’s had. Her fingers were long and straight, her nails trimmed, cuticles tidy, skin scrupulously clean. 

Breakdown took it because she felt powerless not to. It felt as she imagined it: small, dainty, with strong hard bones underneath. She was warm to the touch. Breakdown squeezed her hand very gently. 

“I think,” she said, already _hating herself_ , “you’ve… had a bit to drink.” She averted her eyes from whatever was happening on Knock Out’s shockingly beautiful face, because she was a _coward_. 

There was a short, tense pause. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock was ticking. 

“I have,” Knock Out agreed pleasantly.

Breakdown’s shoulders fell. She wasn’t sure if it was relief or disappointment. Or both. No reason it couldn’t be both.

“Well!” Knock Out said, still pleasant, and equally fake. She tugged her hand away—Breakdown had been keeping it, senselessly. 

This was about when Breakdown realised that her rejection had _hurt Knock Out's feelings_. Of course it had, she thought then. Of course. It was only—it was only, she thought, uncomfortable and stressed, that it seemed so incredible that Breakdown should even have that power over someone like Knock Out. 

“I’m sure you have many, many things to be doing—what am I thinking, trying to keep you here—”

“I’m sorry,” blurted Breakdown. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Knock Out said, somehow bearing her forth, toward the exit and her idling truck with the irresistible force of an ocean wave—the kind of trick you learnt when you hosted rich people parties, Breakdown figured, same as this smooth, glossy recovery and pleasant, insincere smile. “You were a delight. Have a wonderful day.”

The grand front door shut with a _thump_ , and Breakdown found herself on the other side of it. 

She looked at the wood. 

It didn’t move. 

For a long few seconds, neither did Breakdown. Her breath came hard and shaky, and her knees felt weak.

Then she didn’t know what else to do, so she turned around and got back in her delivery truck. She needed to call in and hand off to Drag Strip anyway.

She sat in the driver’s seat for a long few moments, feeling unaccountably horrible. Then she rallied a little, livening herself with some well-placed resentment. Who the hell was Knock Out, anyway, to make _Breakdown_ feel bad for doing what was, clearly, the only professional thing?

Breakdown pulled out of the absurdly long driveway, poking a button for the gate from the inside this time, and turned onto the winding, lonely road from the property. 

...she hoped she hadn’t made her feel that bad. 

_You could have had her, idiot_ , she thought. 

Annoyed, Breakdown turned the radio on and dialled up the volume to drown out her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh... 
> 
> I made myself sad .__. 
> 
> If you liked something about this chapter, drop me a comment and let me know! :)


	4. Chapter 4

Listen, it wasn't as though Knock Out met a hot woman and then spontaneously, drunkenly decided she hated her marriage. 

She already hated her marriage. 

…And she hadn’t been _that_ drunk. Mostly.

That long aching moment—Breakdown's hand on her hand, their eyes meeting, the catch in her breath and the throb of her pulse in her skull—had only been the catalyst. 

She'd looked at Breakdown, solid and soft around the edges, with her big hands and muscled shoulders (Knock Out had a lot of feelings about her shoulders), and Pharma had crossed her mind only very briefly before being discarded. She hadn't cared.

She'd been lucky—oh, humiliated, but _lucky_ —that Breakdown had so carefully turned her down, even as she squeezed her hand and tangled their fingers. 

"I think you've had... a bit to drink," she'd said, already looking away, like she thought Knock Out might disagree with her. 

Knock Out didn't even have to wonder if that had been all: Breakdown had looked at her with naked fascination. She'd stretched out, taken up space, relaxed like a cat in the sunshine under the weight of Knock Out's most casual attention. There was no way she'd have said no, had Knock Out been sober and—ah, readily available. 

"I have," Knock Out had told her, trying to be gracious and not petulant. _I’m also married_ , she did not add, but she was thinking it, suddenly, sickeningly. 

Neither of them mentioned Pharma. 

But it wasn't like Breakdown hadn't _known_.

She was gone now, and the house was large and empty. It was usually Knock Out's favourite thing, this big empty house full of plush dark rugs, marble surfaces, huge gold-framed mirrors and delicate chandeliers, which dangled and glittered from its sky-high ceilings. But now it felt too big, too empty, cold and echoing.

She sat morosely on one of the cream leather couches (in the lounge room, not the sitting room), staring at her latest empty glass, and shivered. 

Knock Out and Pharma had been perfect for each other once. Initially. Or they'd _seemed_ perfect, anyway. 

It was the first serious relationship Knock Out had ever had. But its beginning was years ago now and she couldn't remember if it had really ever been perfect, exactly. 

They'd met at work: Knock Out was in her first year of her residency. Pharma was a slick and pretty drug rep, an only child 'getting a feel' for the work on the ground of her family's sprawling pharmaceutical business. They were equals in temperament, both clever, proud and cutting (which was wonderful, when all their sharp edges were turned _out_ and towards other people) and full of well-deserved conceit.

They shared tastes—expensive tastes, mostly. Knock Out was a few years the younger. Pharma was her first time feeling those small intimacies: of knowing how someone took their coffee, of pausing and thinking 'I have to tell them about that, later,' of eating things she didn’t even like because Pharma wanted them and that was enough, of remembering important dates together.

She'd never once wondered what Pharma got out of their relationship. Knock Out was staggeringly beautiful, accomplished, well-educated, and—if she worked hard at it, and was patient—she could even be charming for short stretches of time. The relationship was not always a delight, but it was stable and familiar and it was, Knock Out reasoned, hard to do better than a mostly-tolerable, successful billionaire. Pharma irritated her sometimes. She was snide, blinded by ego and frequently condescending. But Knock Out told herself that all relationships were the products of constant effort. She knew this to be true.

When they married she was in her late twenties, which had... seemed like about the right time.

She was nearly thirty nine now (though she flattered herself it was extremely hard to tell). And they... were not perfect for each other. 

It turned out that "mostly tolerable" and "extremely rich", despite all expectations, wasn't really enough. 

It was more than being horny and lonely. Although she was, in fact, both horny and lonely.

It was a _lot_ more. 

Her favourite days were like this one—spent alone, even though she was desperately lonely. It was easier without Pharma. 

Knock Out realised that she’d been thinking about life without Pharma for years.

She did not enjoy the realisation. 

Slowly, the light grew warm as the afternoon drifted past, then greyed and darkened around her until sunset leeched all the colour from the world and plunged it into a dusky half-light. The tiny lights in their back garden turned on automatically, illuminating the pathway. They were visible from the window. 

Knock Out got up for another drink, at some point (and then another), but she didn’t bother with the lights.

Pharma got home late into the evening, as she always did, with a rattle of keys by the door and the familiar sound of expensive shoes on hard floors. 

Knock Out listened to it from where she was still sitting on the couch. 

She could hear Pharma move around, her heels clicking as she went up the broad winding staircase. The quality of the sound changed as she hit the rug, and then came the low creak of the door to her private study. 

She tipped her head back and looked up at the ceiling for a long, long moment. 

Then she got up and followed in her wife’s footsteps, up the winding stairs, down the corridor and into the doorway of the study.

She leaned in the doorway, watching. 

The room was grand and old-fashioned. There were wooden book cases lining the walls, packed with stately leather bound tomes that had been collected but probably never read. There was a huge wooden desk with a leather inlay, meticulously clean and unblemished, and two brass stick lamps lighting up their green shades.

The desk chair was empty, but Pharma had hung her tightly-tailored suit jacket over its back so as to avoid creases. Instead she was seated in a big leather armchair, and now was reading some portion of a newspaper she had evidently saved. Her long legs were comfortably crossed in her dove grey pencil skirt. 

The only sign that Pharma hadn’t just now gotten up and dressed to greet an exciting new workday was that a lone tendril of hair had escaped its twist, and was falling down to flick gently at her sharp cheekbone. 

She looked up at Knock Out. Her eyes were sharp and lucid. She had grey irises and a tiny smattering of well-covered freckles. Her eyes flicked clinically from Knock Out’s bare feet to her face. 

Knock Out hadn’t bothered getting dressed, after. There had not seemed to be much point.

After a moment more, she dropped her gaze back to the paper again. “Are you looking for something in particular, Knock Out?” 

“You received a delivery,” Knock Out told her. 

One of Pharma’s eyebrows twitched. “That would be the triple-aspect sculpture. Yes. The tracking information came through.” 

She nodded in the general direction of her desk, where her phone had already been plugged into its charger for the evening.

Knock Out watched her still. She felt exhausted. 

“Right,” she agreed mildly. 

“Is that all?”

“Yes.” Knock Out paused. Then, sharply, “No, actually.”

Pharma’s eyebrow made a new, complicated little movement. She raised her eyes to the heavens as if for patience. “Yes?”

“I think we should divorce,” said Knock Out.

Pharma didn’t even blink. Dismissively she said: "Absolutely not.” 

She sounded very calm. 

Knock Out propped one hand on her hip from where she leaned against the door frame to Pharma’s study. It wasn’t her room; she didn’t enter without being invited. She waited. 

“For what reason could you possibly even want to divorce?” Pharma said, finally, dropping her paper into her lap with a loud rustle. It slid on her tailored skirt and landed atop one crossed knee, pages spread.

“Because I don't want to be married to you anymore,” Knock Out said plainly. She felt it reasonable grounds for divorce, anyway—wasn’t that the only reason anyone needed? 

Pharma rolled her eyes and made a dismissive noise. "You're being absurd. Can you imagine the how long that would take? And the cost? You know stock options are marital property?”

This statement felt largely meaningless to Knock Out, who was more focused on how hollow and miserable she felt, and how it had crept up upon her, slowly, over years until she’d almost failed to recognise it at all. 

She hadn’t really been thinking about marital property. 

She’d been thinking about how she didn’t like Pharma very much, and how desperately she’d wanted Breakdown to touch her. Because Pharma didn’t. And Knock Out didn’t want her to. 

“Have a drink— _another_ drink,” Pharma amended drily, “and go to bed, and you'll feel differently in the morning. We can talk about it then, if you're so..." she looked her up and down, and her nose wrinkled just a little, " _desperate_."

Knock Out stayed still and quiet for a second. She looked at her thoughtfully.

Divorce was, in the end, not a two person decision—she didn't _require Pharma's approval_ ; she could decide unilaterally. She could pay an attorney and serve her papers within the week, probably.

But she knew enough to know that she didn't want a contested divorce. That would take years and drive them both mad. And she knew Pharma well enough to know that if she surprised her with divorce papers, she'd complicate the process out of sheer spite. And then it really would be expensive.

"No," she said, leaning more heavily against the door frame, through her teeth. "I prefer that we discuss it now."

"You're drunk, Knock Out," she sighed. "And I'm tired. In the morning."

She wasn't drunk. 

Well, maybe a little. 

Okay, she was drunk.

But not much. Not _enough_ , which was the only point that mattered.

'In the morning,' she would be getting ready for work, and Pharma would disappear before six anyway, and they wouldn't speak again until she came home and it was late and they were both tired again. 

They'd never talk about it. 

This was obviously the plan. 

Knock Out licked her teeth. "I can serve you papers whether or not we discuss it and cooperate," she pointed out.

In hindsight, this was perhaps a bit aggressive.

Pharma finally turned her full attention on Knock Out. "And I'll make ours the most drawn out, contested divorce in _history_ ,” she hissed.

Yes, that was about what she'd expected. 

She could let her have everything. Arguably. Knock Out had an excellent job, a highly skilled job. And between her and Pharma's absurd inheritance, they had no remaining debts. 

She'd certainly get by.

Knock Out tapped her fingers on her arm.

She didn't _want_ to 'get by'.

But it was clear that this conversation was going nowhere fast. She would have to change tactics—retreat, regroup, and come up with a new way of managing Pharma, of babying her ego through this conflict.

She was confident she'd get there. She had a lot of practice babying Pharma's ego. Another good reason not to be married to her. There was only really room for one giant ego in Knock Out's life. (Hers. It was hers.)

She sighed, and ran a hand through her hair, sending it tumbling over one shoulder in a thick woollen spill. "You're right," she said, yielding, "we'll, ah, talk about it in the morning?" 

Pharma smiled, a brief, sharp little thing. It was gone in a flash. "Of course. Why don't you get some rest? You have work tomorrow."

"Yes, I suppose that's for the best," she agreed slowly. 

She did have work the next day. And she’d need to think things through with a clearer head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Knock Out goes to work and we introduce Starscream.


	5. Chapter 5

That day began in exactly the way Knock Out expected: Pharma was finishing the last of her coffee before Knock Out had even gotten up, and she left without a word to her before Knock Out had finished with her setting powder. It wasn’t surprising, but it was a little disappointing. 

Her first consultation wasn’t until 10:30, but Knock Out arrived at her rooms almost an hour early, scaring the skin off the secretary, who looked at her as though he suspected she might be possessed. 

She could have used the time to prepare, and she did at least boot the computer and open her patient files, but she spent the next forty five minutes scrolling through divorce mediation and advice resources—and even a few dubious blogs—on her phone instead of doing any work. 

_We really encourage you to approach your spouse with the greatest compassion and to accept that there’s likely to be a period of resistance and emotional escalation_ , some therapist had written on his website. Knock Out had checked that he was a registered therapist, but that just meant that he really was practising—not that he wasn’t also full of shit. 

Knock Out had done a psych rotation, once upon a time. It was more than a decade ago, and she wasn’t good at it. She fought the impulse to rub her forehead. 

‘Resistance,’ she mouthed to herself, tasting the word. She supposed the feeling of talking to a brick wall that also couldn’t hear you, so effortlessly imparted by Pharma, was a form of 'resistance'. In its way. 

_Validate the hurt and pain this poses for your spouse. Discuss what might help your spouse during this initial adjustment period. Be a compassionate wife and open the lines of communication._

On the off chance that Pharma was even capable of emotional pain, she certainly wouldn’t want it acknowledged. Pharma was not interested in vulnerability—her own, or anybody else’s. 

_Your spouse needs to hear your reassurance that you’re not out to get them._

Knock Out switched pages again.

_Give your partner time to process the idea._

_The only way to approach divorce when one is ready and one is not is to demonstrate compassion, empathy and understanding that the two of you are not yet on the same page._

Knock Out dropped her phone to her desk. Its screen still shone up at her, text stark. She twitched, and then shot out a hand to flip it over, screen down, with a clatter. 

The internet seemed determined to tell Knock Out that the only way to avoid living with Pharma’s ego forevermore was… coddling Pharma’s ego _now_. 

_You have had time to adjust to the idea of divorce, but your spouse has not._

Oh, what _ever_. 

By the time her first appointment arrived, Knock Out was nearly relieved to be painstakingly explaining why the underlying medical issues causing constant, scarring acne ought to be assessed before cosmetic treatment was sought. 

The day was long, and made longer by a phone call with a patient who was panicking about the swelling from her lip fillers—Knock Out took the call, but it put her off-schedule by ten minutes, which became twenty minutes when a patient ran late, and then ballooned into forty minutes when an appointment could truly not be concluded on time. 

Knock Out was still sorting out her files by 7pm, an hour and a half after the secretary had left. 

Her phone buzzed quietly on her desk, and Knock Out knew who it would be before she even turned it over. Not Pharma, that was for sure. 

“I need you out at my old place,” Starscream said. “We had a little accident with some glass.”

She sounded perfectly relaxed—as relaxed as she ever got, anyway—but she had to raise her voice to be heard over the noise of someone else's deranged, agonised howling. 

“I’m still at work,” Knock Out admitted. 

A pause. Then: “She’s not bleeding that much,” Starscream said coolly. “It’ll keep until you arrive.”

Distantly, something crashed. A tremendous bang went off in the background somewhere. Knock Out elected to categorise that as a car backfiring.

“Forty minutes,” Knock Out said, and then hung up. She took the silent elevator down to her car in the dark and largely empty car park, punched in her code at the exit, slid into her leather driver’s seat, and peeled out of the narrow side street onto which her office’s entry opened. At least by now she’d missed the worst of the peak hour traffic. 

Starscream’s ‘old place’ was the country house of her departed third husband, a sprawling and fenced private property some hundred kilometres out of town. Luckily, the roads were good even in the dark and Knock Out drove fast. 

When she got there, there was a smoking and mangled vehicle in the drive. The gravel beneath it had been turned black and dusty in long, dark streaks. The air positively reeked of burnt synthetics and hot metal.

The place was quiet.

She pulled her car in next to Thundercracker’s huge, matte-painted off road vehicle, and texted Starscream to come out here and get her. No way would she wander the property alone after dark. ...Or in the daytime, really.

She sat in the driver’s seat with the lights off for a moment, illuminated only by the sickly glow of her phone screen. Eventually it, too, fell dark. 

Starscream was heralded by the _click-snap_ of heeled boots. Knock Out saw her silhouette move outside, took her key from the ignition, and opened her car’s door, blinking in the sudden flood of warm yellow light from overhead. 

Starscream’s necklace caught the light before her dark skin did, a sharp golden gleam in the dimness. There was a gold chain around her hips, too, masquerading as a belt. Her silhouette slunk out of the blackness, into the tight beam of the headlights and then further, into the dubious illumination of the overhead light of Knock Out’s car, short and slight and angular. 

It was always something of a surprise to be confronted with how slight Starscream really was; in memory, one tended to overestimate her size. It was largely a function of personality—as far as Knock Out could tell, Starscream had never encountered a single thing she found more impressive than herself. 

“Finally,” she said as Knock Out stepped out of the car, even though she’d made excellent time—better than the local speed limits would approve of. “Come along. And don’t worry, your innocent eyes won’t be corrupted. We’ve cleaned up.”

“I should hope so,” said Knock Out primly. She had no illusions as to the general nature of Starscream’s operation but she preferred to know _specifically_ as little about it as possible. 

Even so, some of the lights were on in the big house, shining brilliantly through the windows in the dark, and Knock Out could clearly see where some of those windows were mysteriously missing all their glass. 

Starscream turned back towards the house, and Knock Out followed, keeping her eye on the footing. Her heels were meant for a sit-down consultations, paperwork and minor surgery, not traipsing over gravel.

“Who am I seeing here?” 

“Oh, Skywarp. Little fool.” From the dismissive way Starscream said it, you’d never know Skywarp was her sister. But on the other hand—Starscream _had_ called a doctor.

Knock Out never kept digital files on any of these clandestine call outs, and made precious few on paper. Most of her review of who she’d be treating had to be done by memory, which could be hit or miss. Even worse, wound care was far and away not one of Knock Out’s specialities—she was more accustomed, professionally, to fixing the results of bad wound care. Scar minimisation was one of her most commonly sought treatments, and she was very good at that…

But Starscream still called her. And Knock Out pretty much always showed up. 

The light from the house’s windows finally reached them as they approached the steps up to the grand, heavy doors of the house, shining through the big and old-fashioned windows on either side of the entryway. It illuminated the shine of Starscream’s coal-dark hair, and cast a satiny glow over her red leather jacket.

Starscream, Knock Out could tell in the light, had missed a spot. Her clothing was pristine and smelled tellingly of laundry detergent, but there was a dark, rusty-coloured fleck on one of her cheeks. When she unlocked the front door, her hand was directly in the warm glow of the light, and it was hard not to notice both the conspicuous lack of all her regular rings and bracelets, and the skin that had split over one knuckle. 

If Knock Out had to hazard a guess, she’d say Starscream’s rings were tucked away somewhere discreet, for cleaning. 

“What,” said Starscream. She followed Knock Out’s gaze. Her nose wrinkled when she noticed her hand. “Ugh. That’s going to take days to heal.”

“Let me know if you—”

“You’re not here for _me_ ,” Starscream waved her off. 

“All right… Well, just so you know, Starscream, you’ve got a little something—” Knock Out said blandly, gesturing to her cheek, “—right here.”

Starscream pretended she hadn’t said anything. “Hurry up, Doctor, we don’t have all night.”

Knock Out didn't make any further comments about her appearance. She gestured forward, and then followed her deeper into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- first, I'm absolutely shocked at the number of people who seem to have read and liked this fic so far--I really genuinely thought I'd be like 33% of my own audience for this when I first started posting, so thank you for dropping by and telling me what you liked and so on
> 
> \- the stuff written about divorce that Knock Out looks up online is largely sourced from the blog equitablemediation dot com, which I don't particularly recommend but should be cited as a source for completeness. 
> 
> \- if you want to chat with me about this modern AU (and the, unfortunately, expansive worldbuilding and backstories in it that aren't covered in this particular fic due to limited POV, RIP), I'm available at [cardio-vore](https://cardio-vore.tumblr.com/) on tumblr or [@fascination_ex](https://twitter.com/fascination_ex) on twitter 
> 
> \- next chapter we meet FOUR WHOLE characters, I'm excited
> 
> \- if you liked something and you're a commenting kind of person, please let me know about it in the comments :) 
> 
> \- have a good night!


	6. Chapter 6

“We have some… guests, this evening,” Starscream said as she led Knock Out down a corridor and deeper into the house. The long, skinny rug muffled their footsteps, and the dim bulbs in decorative wall fixtures gave the space a warm and soft feeling that it probably didn’t deserve. 

“Right,” said Knock Out. It was a warning, but she had no idea what Starscream might mean by ‘guests’. She gave it even odds that she was going to walk in on a bunch of victims tied up and gagged and preemptively tried to steel herself against both the experience, and the urge to ask any questions about it.

There were no bound and gagged captives, just two strangers.

For a moment after she walked in, Knock Out didn’t even see the second of the unfamiliar women. She was too busy trying not to stare s at the first one, who registered less as a person and more as a kind of… large, ambulatory wall. 

She was both solid and huge. She sat on one of the couches, but even so, she might still have come up to Knock Out’s chest. She was missing the jacket and shirt that presumably went with her dark dress trousers. In only a tank undershirt—with the strap of a sports bra showing at the shoulder—her shoulders and arms were completely bare. 

She glanced up from where she was wrapping her own hands when Starscream and Knock Out entered, then back down at her hands again. There was a short, rusty smear down her forearm. The lean, ropy muscles in her arms flexed under her scarred and scraped skin as she wound her bandage.

The other unfamiliar woman was barely a footnote by comparison: tall and willowy, standing beside the couch and its large, over-muscled occupant. She wore dark glasses and dark clothing, had dark hair, and had aimed her face at her smart phone, which reflected brightly on the glasses. She had some contraption on her head, featuring a single earbud and a voice receiver. 

(Was that some kind of bluetooth thing? Knock Out didn’t know about that sort of thing—she knew how use a pager, how to order deliveries and access electronic patient records, and that was about it as far as her technology skills went.)

“Hey, Doc,” called Skywarp cheerfully, attracting Knock Out’s attention. 

Skywarp was sprawled on an ivory leather couch across the other side of the broad room. There was a coffee table between her and the “guests”, whatever that meant when Starscream said it. 

There was a pile of towels beneath Skywarp’s arm, which had no doubt once been white. Now they were soaked through with blood and had turned a rusty brown. The edges were dark and stiff, which at least perhaps suggested that the bleeding was slowing.

She peered up at Knock Out from beneath her sharply-cut fringe, and waved her ‘tropical’ juice box at her in greeting. Her hair was dyed a shockingly bright purple, but under it, her fine eyes and high angular cheekbones were very similar to Starscream’s.

She pointed at her injured arm, one finger sticking out from where she was clutching the carton. “Look, no hand injuries this time! Just for you.”

Knock Out had, at one point in the past, been very explicit about the specialist expertise of an orthopaedic surgeon specialising in hands, which she was _not_. 

“And it’s not even my birthday,” she drawled. It was best not to take anything Skywarp said too seriously. She bent to peer closely without yet touching. “Is there debris in this?” 

“Just a little glass,” Skywarp said, like that was any better than anything else.

“Oh, of course,” muttered Knock Out. “Just a _little_.” 

Skywarp slurped obnoxiously on her juice box, smiling up at her. 

“It’s window glass,” said Thundercracker. 

Knock Out glanced at her, but other than a sort of vague head-bob of greeting, it wasn’t an illuminating exchange—Thundercracker didn’t even meet her gaze, too busy holding up her patch of wall and relentlessly watching the woman on the couch.

Thundercracker, to Knock Out’s knowledge, was either their half-sibling, their cousin, or some person unrelated to either of them but whom Skywarp referred to as a sister anyway, presumably to confuse outsiders. She was taller than both of them, paler than both of them, and way, way more even-tempered than both of them.

Knock Out only hummed her acknowledgement. 

Thundercracker’s ever-so-casual lean against the wall, where she remained instead of crowding her injured sister on the couch, seemed to indicate that she thought someone should be keeping a close eye on the whole room and its occupants.

Starscream sauntered forward to perch on the arm of the couch. She, too, stared over Knock Out’s lowered head at her guests, her expression mild but her gaze intent. Her red jacket clashed brilliantly with Skywarp’s hair.

The strange woman on the couch and her tall, dark and wearing-sunglasses-inside-at-night companion seemed determined to ignore all this tense, hostile surveillance. Knock Out wasn’t sure how they’d rated an invitation to the house, if Starscream trusted them so little. Had something happened just tonight, or… 

Knock Out shifted her train of thought with the proficiency of practice. It was best to be incurious about these things. 

She did not ask for introductions. Starscream didn’t offer any. And Knock Out was pretty glad, too, not to be introduced by name.

She set her bag down and turned her back on the strangers, trying to ignore both the prickling of the skin on the back of her neck as she did so, and how everybody else in the room was watching the pair of them like wary birds of prey. Deliberately, she kept her head down, fixed her attention on Skywarp’s injury, and pretended she had no notion of the other people in the room at all.

Starscream’s small, tense body sat balanced on the couch arm, coiled and ready for movement.

Skywarp gnawed on the straw of her juice box and sluuuuurped, loudly and obnoxiously. 

While Knock Out applied herself to digging up her gloves and beginning to unwrap and clean out the injury on Skywarp’s arm, the two women across the room spoke quietly—but just audibly—to establish that somebody was coming to pick them up.

If Knock Out had not been close enough to feel the gentle tremor of Skywarp’s tight core muscles, she would never have picked how uncomfortable she, too, clearly was. 

There was a clock ticking deeper in the house, a maddening counterpoint to the general atmosphere of unhappy tension. 

Into this, one of the strangers’ phones shrilled a message tone. 

Knock Out twitched. 

Lucky she hadn’t yet begun closing the gash. Even Skywarp’s laissez-faire attitude might take a hit if Knock Out stabbed her by accident. 

“That’s Shockwave,” said one of the strangers. She had a slightly raspy quality to her voice. Knock Out glanced over her shoulder at the sound of one of them moving. 

The bigger one got up from her seat on the couch, unfolding to a towering height. Looking at her standing up properly in the light, she was probably only a few years older than Knock Out herself. Her jaw was hard. Her dark eyes were hard. There was iron grey hair at her temples, pulled back from her face with the rest of her dark hair. There was a scar on her throat, much too ragged for surgical scars, and at some point her nose had been broken and not set quite right.

Knock Out watched her lean forward and rest her hands on the back of an empty chair. Her hands were taped, but her fingers were still bare. She had scarred knuckles, too. The soft leather sighed when she squeezed it.

Knock Out quickly turned back to her ‘patient’. 

“This has been… unfortunate,” the woman said, still in that steady, measured, rasping voice. “We’ll meet to go over the details another day.”

“I think that’s for the best,” said Starscream. Her voice sounded light and friendly by comparison. A sideways glance revealed she was still smiling her sharp, insincere little smile. There was an edge to it that Knock Out did not recognise. “Thundercracker and I will show you both out. It would be a shame for you to get, ah, lost.”

Knock Out didn’t see what happened, then, but some gesture of agreement must have been made because Thundercracker’s jacket creaked when she pushed off from the wall. 

Her hands went still as she listened to them all head out of the room behind her back. Starscream’s heels snapped on the floor in a counterpoint to someone else’s subtle limp. 

“You daydreaming there, Doc?” Skywarp wondered in the ensuing silence. 

“No,” said Knock Out, clipped. 

There was no point in telling Skywarp that this was tense and awful to even witness: if she noticed at all, it was a hazard of her job, and she was surely inured to it. 

It was a lot easier to suture her injury without an audience anyway. With the wound cleaned, Knock Out applied short, simple, interrupted sutures that she drew gently to the correct tension before tying off individually. For injuries where there was likely to be a lot of movement, it could be better not to use a continuous stitch. This way, if one broke, none of the others were endangered. 

“At least a fortnight before these come out, if you please. And don’t get it wet.” 

Skywarp must have known this as well as Knock Out did by now, because she’d heard it nearly as many times. She rolled her eyes. 

The last of the tension went out of her when Starscream and Thundercracker returned. Knock Out couldn’t help but respond to it, too, and her own shoulders loosened a little.

“I think she’s a very good actor, if she’s lying,” Thundercracker was saying, “and I can’t see the point in that stunt otherwise.”

Knock Out did her best not to hear their business, and the next thing she consciously noticed was Starscream saying, “Her money’s as good as the next person’s,” in a tone of overly studied indifference. 

Skywarp snorted. She made eyebrows at Knock Out.

Knock Out firmly did not care about Starscream’s business. 

“Nearly done,” she said, loudly. Thundercracker zoomed over to hover, and Knock Out finished up the dressing. “If you notice any redness, unusual swelling—”

“I’ve got it,” said Skywarp. 

Knock Out ignored this and looked up at Thundercracker instead. “—bad smells, aches or a temperature, you’ll need to see another doctor or call me again.”

Thundercracker nodded soberly, even though she, too, had heard all of this many times over. “We will,” she assured her.

Knock Out unbent from where she’d been kneeling and got up with a tiny grunt she would probably not have made in her twenties. 

Starscream leaned over to eye the dressing critically, and then she sniffed. Her hand, hard, cool and bony, touched Knock Out’s elbow. “Come on, have a drink with me.”

Knock Out contemplated it. She had work again in the morning, and still no idea how to talk to Pharma. A drink sounded… like what she would have done alone, anyway.

She followed Starscream, listening to the click and snap of those heels on the so-recently cleaned tiles. Her own shoes made a quieter sound. They were the same ones she’d worn to open the door to that cute delivery girl yesterday, in fact… 

Starscream’s third husband had fancied himself a cook, in the way of people who had never come to view feeding themselves and their families as a tiresome daily chore. As Knock Out understood it, he’d fired his cook and had this very palatial kitchen constructed when he and Starscream had moved out to this property during their fifteen minutes of marital bliss. 

The room was well lit and spacious, with broad stone benches, multiple sinks, an enormous stove and storage for days. On a shelf against one wall, appliances rested like rows of soldiers: sous vide, ice cream maker, bread maker, pressure cooker, mixers on their stands… and several things Knock Out didn’t have names for. Was that a dehydrator gathering dust over there?

She perched on the tall stool at the central island counter and leaned her elbows on the thick marble top. In the other room, she could still hear Skywarp, now whining to be picked up and carried to bed. 

Starscream didn’t measure how much liqueur she dumped in the bottom of their flutes before topping them up with champagne. 

She was short enough that she had to boost herself onto her stool. 

“Are we celebrating something?” Knock Out wondered, tipping the flute and watching the bubbles. She only tormented herself with champagne on special occasions.

“What?”

Celebrating that Starscream liked champagne, apparently. “Never mind.”

She drank. The bubbles and the easy, sweet flavour of the liqueur, combined with her long-ago lunch, meant that this would probably go to her head very fast. 

“I want lip fillers,” Starscream said shortly. She traced the rim of her glass with a delicate fingertip. Somehow she had torn the skin on her knuckles, but not broken a single one of her nails.

Knock Out eyed her. 

Starscream did not need lip fillers, because she already had the kind of looks that made other people mentally ill. 

Knock Out licked her teeth. “I’ll make you an appointment.” Business was business, after all 

“Not for a while,” Starscream cautioned—grudgingly. “I’m still in mourning.”

“Ah,” said Knock Out. She really didn’t have any firm memories of husband #5, but she was sure she’d met him at some point. “My condolences on your loss,” she said, mild as milk. 

“Thank you. It’s a difficult time for us all.” Starscream tossed back her drink. Her rings flashed in the light from overhead. Knock Out couldn’t remember seeing her put them back on, but they were clean and gleaming now. “And of course, there’s _Megatron_. No doubt she’ll want to reschedule our meeting to some damnably inconvenient time.”

“Megatron’s that…” ‘Woman’ seemed too mild a word. Walking bulwark, maybe.

“Oh, yes. That’s her.” Starscream’s voice was not quite as flat as she’d evidently wanted it to be, but Knock Out couldn’t read anything else in it. “Today was a disaster. I’ll be sending her the bill for my windows, and for that piece of junk in my driveway… But you don’t want to hear me talk about work,” she added. 

Knock Out really did not—less because it wasn’t interesting, and more because much of what Starscream did was, ah, punishable. There was only so much Knock Out could sweep under the rug in the name of patient confidentiality. “Mm,” she said, non-specifically. 

She tapped her nails on the base of her glass. There was a short moment of silence. Skywarp and Thundercracker had gone somewhere, or at least had become very quiet. Somewhere that clock was still ticking. 

Her mouth moved on its own. “I want to divorce Pharma,” she said. 

“Finally.”

Knock Out looked up. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I supposed to feign shock?” Starscream tapped her finger on the cold bench top between them. “What’s the pre-nup situation?”

“There isn’t one. But,” she took a deep breath. “I tried to bring it up with her. She wasn’t very receptive. She said we’d have it contested and...” 

Starscream sniffed. “Well, I don’t know what you want me to say—you know what my solution to that would be.” She did. “Are you still going to go through with it?”

Knock Out blew out a deep breath. That was the question, wasn’t it? But in hearing it parroted back to her, she discovered she’d already decided. It was easy to answer. “Yes. It’s miserable.”

Strange to think that you could be married for a decade and still _crushingly lonely_. 

Starscream hummed quietly. “Have you told anyone else about it?” A pause. “Has Pharma?”

Knock Out scoffed. “I think Pharma has already excised the entire conversation from her memory.” Conversations Pharma found inconvenient did tend to be mysteriously misremembered. “And, no, you’re the only one. Why?”

“Best to keep your options open, Doctor,” said Starscream thoughtfully. “Well, if you do decide to, ah, _serve her papers_ , it’s best not to be stuck living with her. I’d make you welcome here, you know. Out of the goodness of my own heart.” Her smile was sharp.

There was undoubtedly room for a live-in medical practitioner under Starscream’s roof, where her grizzly and dangerous operation took place. And a collar, too, just waiting for someone foolish enough to take her up on it. Staying at a five star hotel until the whole mess was finalised would be, ultimately, cheaper by any metric that mattered. 

Knock Out appreciated Starscream. She even liked her, most of the time. But she still wasn’t about to move in and put herself at her back and call. She smiled. “Why, thank you. That’s so kind of you,” she said politely, by which she meant: _absolutely not_. 

Starscream clearly inferred the true meaning. Her smile didn’t change at all, just a slash of white teeth in her dark face. “Like I said: keep your options open. If you need me, call me.”

“Of course,” said Knock Out, showing her teeth right back. 

“Another drink?” Starscream said, and didn’t bother to wait for her response before she filled her glass again. Knock Out had not intended to say no, so that was fine.

It was midnight before she left, and Starscream walked her back out to her car. Knock Out climbed in, listening to the leather seats sigh in the cool dark air around her, and Starscream came to stand in the doorway, preventing Knock Out from closing it. 

“If you want my advice,” she told her seriously, in a tone that meant she was going to get it whether or not she wanted it, “whatever else you do, just don’t turn it into a missing person’s case. It takes _years_ to get someone declared dead.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Knock Out said, with the dry confidence of someone who definitely did not intend to kill her wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the drink choices made by characters in this fic are things i spent way too much time thinking about with regard to their taste, how much effort they're willing to put in, their financial circumstances and whether or not someone else is making it for them. Starscream is making a lazy person's answer to a kir royal. 
> 
> \- this chapter is twice as long as i meant for it to be. annoying. 
> 
> \- next time we catch up with Breakdown
> 
> If you liked something here, please feel free to let me know in a comment!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter we move over to some Breakdown POV. This wasn't originally in this fic, but I decided I wanted to introduce her very ordinary existence both as a point of interest (ie., I wanted to write about her) and as a contrast to Knock Out's utterly miserable but ultimately charmed life of champagne and expensive shoes. 
> 
> **I've put a tiny content warning in the end note so you may view it or not at your discretion.**

Light on her eyelids woke Breakdown up. She blinked sleepily, flinched, and yanked the covers higher to cover her face. Now her toes were exposed and cold. 

She hiked her feet up under the covers again, curling into a ball and rolling away from the light. She'd forgotten to pull the blinds down. Again.

With a surprised little _mrrp_ , the mattress shifted. 

“You’re not meant to be on the bed,” Breakdown said. She made no move to enforce this rule, because the cat had never listened to her before and did not seem likely to start now. Sure enough, a moment later a dense fuzzy skull rammed into her nose with more enthusiasm than caution, and twenty seconds after that a neat little set of claws started kneading her boob. 

Breakdown groaned and pulled the cat away from her chest, sitting up at last. The cat, a leggy tortoiseshell with a persistent head tremor, made a croaky meow at her and then shot her a look of utmost betrayal when Breakdown deposited her on the floor instead of on the sheets. 

She ignored it and staggered up from the bed, stiff and disoriented with sleep. Her alarm would go off in a minute anyway. She needed to get moving. There was a pair of jeans dangling over the back of a chair that didn’t smell too bad, and she had at least managed to have a clean uniform shirt prepared. She kicked a shoe box out of the way and picked up the towel tossed over her desk. 

The cat followed her out of her room, hopping her back legs forward to keep up with her forelegs. She clawed her way clumsily onto the second-hand armchair, tracing a well-worn path of teas and scratches up the ancient velour. 

The main room of the house was tiny, cramped and cluttered. Breakdown dropped her towel over the back of a chair—it would migrate back into the bathroom eventually—and squeezed between the arm chair and the cluttered kitchen table to access the stove and put some coffee on. Coffee was the first step to making sure her work day wasn’t a complete catastrophe. 

Breakdown leaned on the bench and closed her eyes while she waited. 

In the other room of their small shared house, she could hear Dead End's voice, recording her voice over: 

“Why bother with a long-lasting top coat when you might be dead by tomorrow?” she was asking her audience in a cynical tone. “Well... you also might _not_ be dead by tomorrow—arguably even worse—so put one on anyway.”

Another nail art tutorial, which Breakdown could actually smell if she paid attention, a heady polish reek under the soothing scent of coffee grounds. She tiredly scratched something off the bench top. It needed cleaning. When was she going to find time for that?

Instead of thinking about that, she went to dig out the cat food.

Dead End emerged just in time for Breakdown to pour the coffee. She was tall, but quite unlike Breakdown she looked long-limbed and willowy. Breakdown suspected that if she ever went back to actually doing physical work for a living, she’d have a rough few weeks getting started. This morning, her dark curls were in disarray and her big, almond-shaped eyes were bloodshot. 

“Hey, make me one,” she said, collapsing into a chair. The cat immediately began sizing her up for lap accessibility. 

Breakdown grunted and got a second cup. She wasn’t completely sure if Dead End knew how to make her own coffee, or even how to use the stove in general. She sure never seemed to. But she was family, so it wasn’t like Breakdown would say no. 

There was a sound of paper uncrumpling. “Is this all still Wildrider’s shit from last week?” she asked. 

Breakdown glanced over her shoulder. Dead End had plucked the scrap of paper out of the clutter of pamphlets, newspapers and bills and the table.

“Yeah.”

“Motormaster lose her shit about it yet?” Dead End wondered. 

Breakdown pulled a face. She made a negative noise. They all knew it had to happen eventually. Motormaster had finite patience and poor impulse control. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Breakdown asked, eyeing her as she handed over the cup of coffee. She took her own black and very sweet—because somehow their milk was either all gone or expired, always and forever—but Dead End’s was as bitter as she was. 

“Yesterday,” she said promptly, wrapping her hands around the cup, careful of the drying nails on her left hand. They showed a checker-board pattern in red and black, with little white skulls in their centres. 

Breakdown looked at them for a second. Silently, Dead End flexed her fingers and held out her hand for closer inspection.

“It’s nice,” said Breakdown. 

Dead End’s hooded eyes looked up and met Breakdown’s, focused and unsettling. “I’ll take it off in an hour,” she said, by way of response. 

Breakdown wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She turned away again and dug around for a pan, which was hidden under a pile of dishes that she had washed, but not bothered to store away. She did not take the opportunity to do so. She poked the pile until she figured out how to get the pan out without dislodging any of the other kitchenware. 

Dead End would eat an egg at least. She was pretty sure she remembered buying eggs?

“Wildrider’s back in today. Guess we’ll see how that goes.”

“You know how it’ll go,” Dead End drawled. “I know how it’ll go. Even Wildrider knows how it’ll go. Motormaster hates having to shuffle deliveries. She’s lucky you even came in.”

“Wasn’t that bad,” Breakdown said. It hadn’t been her ideal day off and she was already way behind on chores, but she’d had worse days. None of her deliveries had even been that awful—not even the one out to Pharma, which had been a stroke of luck. 

Not for the first time, her mind drifted back to that particular job, and the pretty redhead who had been so enthusiastic about inviting her to ‘stay for a drink’. 

At this point Breakdown was fairly certain she was exaggerating how impossibly beautiful Knock Out had been—brains did stuff like that all the time, changing recollections to fit a narrative and all that. Logically Breakdown knew she couldn’t have been _that_ hot anyway, because nobody that hot would have hit on Breakdown. 

She wasn’t quite sure if it was the sheer appeal of a very pretty woman— _not_ to be underestimated—that was making her fixate on it, or if the interaction had just made her feel some kind of way because of the implied compliment. It was flattering. Breakdown, mostly, was used to being big, not very bright, and uncreative but reliable. It wasn’t often that pretty women threw themselves at her, so—

Her pinky made contact with the hot edge of the pan and she swore loudly. 

Breakdown shoved the burnt finger into her mouth, but the damp heat of it just made the burn hurt more, and she had to get the egg out before it burned up anyway. 

“Here,” she slid the egg onto a plastic chopping board that looked more or less clean, and served it up to Dead End.

“I guess when you cook, you’re bound to burn yourself some time,” Dead End said gloomily. 

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Breakdown shook her hand a little, which also did nothing. It wasn’t like it was a bad burn. It probably wouldn’t even blister. And it was her own fault for getting distracted. There was no good damn reason to be this obsessed with one interaction with a client’s crazy rich wife. 

She focused on making her own food and drinking her coffee. 

“Are you really going to eat three eggs?” Dead End wondered, sounding like this was a quantity of food she could hardly imagine, let alone personally consume. 

“Yes,” grunted Breakdown, whipping them together with a fork. There was half an onion of unknown provenance—and equally unknown age—in the fridge when she looked, so she took a little of that, too. The egg went in, sizzling softly, and the onion went on top. Breakdown tilted the pan to make sure the egg was getting lots of contact area. “Are you going to eat anything?” she asked pointedly, glancing over her shoulder. 

Dead End poked at her single fried egg, then finally tore a corner of the white off and put it in her mouth. “Happy?”

Breakdown ignored this, testing the edges of her egg for relative done-ness before flopping one side over the other. 

The omelette tore while she was making it, but it didn’t affect the taste. When it was done, she salted it, gulped down more coffee and leaned back against the sink to eat breakfast from the pan with a fork like some kind of savage. 

“I’m just saying,” Dead End was still watching her, and had apparently eaten in a weird neurotic circle right around her rapidly cooling egg yolk on the cutting board, “that’s a lot of eggs.”

“Okay,” Breakdown said placidly, shoving a forkful into her mouth. The omelette would have been a lot better with pretty much any additional food in it, but unless she wanted to go digging in the garden right this second, Breakdown didn’t think they had any. She added more salt. It didn’t help much. 

“You’re not exactly light on your feet.” She said it delicately, like she thought Breakdown might not have noticed. They’d had the same conversation almost weekly for the past three years of cohabitation, so it was safe to say Breakdown was more or less aware of her feelings on the matter of… any woman who wasn’t currently on a crash diet, apparently.

“I’ve heard it. Shut up and pay attention to what _you’re_ eating,” Breakdown said flatly, with an edge. 

Dead End rolled her eyes. “Don’t blame me when you turn into a blimp,” she muttered.

“You’re not coming in, right?” Breakdown said, by way of forcibly changing the topic. She finished her food and dumped the pan and the plate in the sink. There was no way Dead End would do the dishes sometime before she got home in the evening, but she was going to run late if she messed around much more.

“I’ve gotta finish editing the setting powder video,” Dead End said, looking at her phone. “Say goodbye to Wildrider for me.”

“Do you mean ‘hello’?” Breakdown wasn’t entirely sure what setting powder was or did. She felt this way about a lot of mysterious make up terms, and chose not to ask for clarification.

“Nnno,” said Dead End. Without looking up from her phone she extracted Breakdown’s keys from the clutter on the table and batted them across the wood for Breakdown to grab. “I mean goodbye.” Breakdown got a glance at the phone screen when she leaned over for the keys. Dead End was typing ‘RIP’ in the comments section of someone’s social media post. 

“Right,” muttered Breakdown. 

Dead End didn’t even look back up at her, but she tilted her face automatically into a kiss on the cheek and returned it just as perfunctorily. Breakdown touched her shoulder, then went and grabbed her shoes, wallet and phone and headed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The content warning I promised in the top note: a character comments to another character about her diet by way of commenting on her weight.
> 
> The next chapter is more Breakdown, because obviously we must also meet Motormaster and Drag Strip and Wildrider, and after that we're jumping back to talk some more about Knock Out.
> 
> Feel free to drop me a comment! And have a good night. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the rest of Breakdown's extremely functional family!
> 
> There's a brief content warning for this chapter. I've put it in the end note--if you don't prefer to be warned, you can ignore it.

Usually, Breakdown got most of her orders on her phone and rarely needed to head into the office. Her job was moving things from one place to another, and neither place was ever the dim and battered office. But once a week, Motormaster insisted they all show up in person for a variety of purposes: announcements, paperwork, scheduling, and, of course, so she could yell at them to their faces.

Breakdown had a hunch about what was on today’s agenda. She hoped she was wrong, but that would probably have been putting blind optimism before experience. Motormaster was both mean and predictable. Wildrider had blown off her jobs and forced two of her cousins to split the difference—and Motormaster to reorganise her schedule around it. 

She felt unsettled before she even arrived, and found herself drumming her fingers upon the steering wheel as she waited for a light to turn green again. She hoped Wildrider felt half as nervous as she did about this. She doubted it, though. As far as Breakdown knew, Wildrider had never been anxious about a single thing in her whole life.

By the time Breakdown pulled into the well-occupied car park outside the building where Motormaster had set up shop, her head was already beginning to throb from the stiffness of her neck and jaw. 

The area was industrial, full of warehouses and factories, just north of a muddy river. The car park was full of dusty mid-range SUVs and lighter cargo vehicles, but she could hear the sound of the heavier ones from nearby roads. Their office was rented from some guy Motormaster knew (from ‘around’), and it was jammed into one corner of a warehouse full of what the owner referred to only as “goods” and “product”. Breakdown had no idea what was actually in the boxes, only that they were reinforced, moved around occasionally, and did not smell. 

This morning she avoided the huge rolling door and went for the side entry, down a dim concrete corridor and into the windowless office rooms. The inside wasn’t any more comfortable than the outside: ancient metal filing cabinets, battered tables and a lot of dust that got blown haphazardly around by a creaky fan someone had brought in to at least move some of the air around. 

Breakdown wasn’t, as she’d feared, the last one there. She was the first, after Motormaster, which was better than being late, but it did mean that when Motormaster looked up there was nothing to split her attention. 

Motormaster was one of their family’s rare blonds, and her hair was short enough that it formed tight curls at the top where it wasn’t shaved close. Her face was long, with a sharp nose and a scattering of freckles that were hard to pick out from her skin. She got up from her seat when she saw Breakdown at the door. 

Motormaster was only about half an inch taller than Breakdown, but she seemed bigger. She was ropy with wiry, lean muscle and moved with an air of poorly-contained tension. When she leaned in to touch her mouth to the side of Breakdown's face, the world smelled like the ash and bitter shampoo, sharp scents trapped in her hair.

“No Dead End?” she said, leaning back again, dark eyes fixed right on Breakdown. 

Breakdown shifted uncomfortably on her feet, not liking the question. “Uh, no, she has… to edit?” 

She knew that Dead End and Motormaster had some kind of agreement about when she was required for any kind of work. She might have been semi-independent with the scrapings she somehow made off peddling “flat belly” tea and weird beauty videos, but she was Motormaster’s baby sister—part of the family. And family was important. 

Motormaster pulled a face, but she grunted and didn’t start yelling, so Breakdown assumed that she wasn’t going to have to find some way to elaborate on what Dead End was up to. 

After what seemed like forever of leaning against the wall, standing very still while Motormaster messed around with some files, the outer door finally creaked again.

“--and so, next time I get drunk and bust some shit up,” Wildrider’s voice carried through to the office before she made it in, “I should probably make sure it’s not with someone whose dad’s a cop. Oh, Dead End says… RIP,” she added, finally coming into the room.

“I think that’s part of her ‘brand’,” Drag Strip offered uncertainly, one step behind her. 

“Whatever that even is,” Wildrider muttered. 

Wildrider and Drag Strip had the same family look: they were tall, with dark hair and eyes, square shoulders and long limbs. 

Drag Strip looked like she’d just come from training, which was probably because she had pretty much always and forever just come from training. As far as Breakdown knew, she was still adamant that this year was the year she’d run a marathon in less than three hours. Breakdown didn’t have a reference point for what it was even like to run forty two kilometres, and therefore had no appreciation for whether or not that was actually impressive—but she did know that, for Drag Strip, the tiny running shorts and giant water bottle had at some point just become things she never left at home.

Wildrider looked like she was on her way somewhere more important, dressed in long boots and a leather jacket and sunglasses, with her dark hair spilling thick and woollen over er shoulders. She looked up from her phone when they came in and shoved it away when she saw both Breakdown and Motormaster were already present.

Motormaster didn’t leave them waiting idle for very long. They greeted each other with perfunctory touching faces and hands on arms, and then it was to business: 

“You’re late,” she said—and they were, by about five minutes—and then launched into the big jobs they had scheduled for the week. While they required very little notice, sometimes they had items planned weeks or even months in advance, and Motormaster had to make sure both that those were planned around, and that there were drivers in different areas of the city to be available for those shorter notice jobs.

“Me and Breakdown have the morning on Wednesday to move a two-room apartment in the CBD—”

“Is that Jazz _again_?” Drag Strip wondered. 

“Girl likes to move.” Motormaster scowled fiercely at her. “If she wants to pay us to pick her shit up and take it somewhere else every six months, we don’t fucking complain about it.”

“Where is she getting the money?” 

Breakdown kind of wondered this, too: breaking a rental agreement and hiring someone to pick up all your stuff and take it to another place twice a year wasn’t exactly a cheap hobby. 

She wasn’t stupid enough to _say_ it, though. All Drag Strip was doing was prolonging this meeting.

…Besides: Motormaster might not be the best company, but she pulled her weight on a job. And Jazz was as easygoing a client as they came. 

“Do I look like I care?” Motormaster wondered, somehow making the question so naturally aggressive that it didn’t even sound like a question anymore. “You’re going to be picking up a package from the airport and taking it out east to Delphi.”

“Pharma again? Wow, what did I do to you?” muttered Drag Strip. 

“How about you ask yourself what I’m going to do to _you_ if you don’t shut up?” Motormaster suggested. 

Breakdown was just relieved to know it wasn’t going to be her job. She’d fixated enough on her last trip out there. She didn’t particularly envy Motormaster the logistical work that went into this, either—at least when Breakdown had her schedule, all the changes that usually happened were just texts on her phone that filled in the blanks as new jobs came up. 

She listened with half an ear to what Motormaster was saying, emerging from her stupor only to type a note into her phone when her own name came up. Motormaster, long used to the weird quirks of her own family, at least seemed like she was only paying attention to Drag Strip and Wildrider.

“That’s it for the scheduling, we’ll fill in the blanks as the week goes. Now.” Motormaster’s detached voice got even colder. “We have some conversations to have about discipline.”

Breakdown glanced at Wildrider, whose expression didn’t seem to indicate any particular self preservation instinct kicking in. Her sunglasses and keys were on the desk, and she was thumbing something into her phone. 

“Wildrider,” said Motormaster pointedly. 

She looked up. “Huh?”

There was a long, long pause. 

“Oh. Yeah, look, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t expect to get _that_ drunk… but, you know, it was a big night.” She was, at last, starting to look slightly nervous. “I was really sick the next day.”

“Big night,” Motormaster repeated, with venom. “So _accidentally_ got so wasted you were too sick to work?”

“Uhh…” said Wildrider. “I guess?”

“Wildrider, do I seem stupid to you?” Motormaster wondered. 

“Um…” said Wildrider. The answer was probably ‘yes’. But, if they were talking about relative stupidity—well, that would have been a _very_ stupid answer. “No?”

“Then I don’t understand why you think you’re going to get away with _fucking with me_ ,” Motormaster snarled, striding toward her. 

Wildrider yelped when Motormaster grabbed her by the arms and shoved her, wildly, deeper into the room. She stumbled, boots loud on the floor, and caught herself on the edge of Motormaster’s desk with one hand. She shoved herself back upright. 

“What the hell?” 

But, clearly, Motormaster wasn’t even close to listening. 

_Oh no_ , thought Breakdown distantly. The expression on Motormaster’s face was grim and frustrated and ominous. 

Breakdown might have seen it coming, but Wildrider was too occupied getting her feet under her again. 

Motormaster grabbed her by one arm, heaved her up and slammed her back into the desk, face first. Wildrider shrieked, high and hoarse, and loud enough that Breakdown thought her own heart was vibrating in panicked response. She cringed.

“What, wait, shit, what are you—wait! Motormas—” Wildrider cut herself off in a wheeze when Motormaster took the collar of her jacket and a fistful of her hair to drag her further up upon the desk. She planted one knee in her back, using her weight to drive the air from her.

“Now,” she said, in the relative quietness, interrupted only by the swish of fabric and the wheeze of laboured breath. Wildrider's arms were constrained by the jacket, which had come part way off and did not let her raise them very far. She kicked, but she didn’t even have the right angle to hit the side of the desk, let alone Motormaster. “You inconvenienced everyone. You’re going to apologise to me, and then you’re gonna say how sorry you are to Breakdown and Drag Strip, who all had to pick up your fucking slack, because you’re a dumb slag who thought drinking and partying was more important than your _family_.”

While she was talking, she took up the office scissors by their bright orange handles and now she snip-snipped them right before Wildrider’s face. 

Breakdown felt a little nervous, at that. She wasn’t going to cut an ear off or something, was she? She wondered if, like, ear-cutting was the limit at which she’d finally intervene. She glanced at Drag Strip. She was reading something on Wildrider’s phone.

Motormaster lifted the weight from her pointy knee, and Wildrider took a wet, heaving breath and _screeched._

Motormaster grabbed her hair and thumped her head back into the desk top once, twice, making the scream change pitch with each new impact. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Don’t,” croaked Wildrider. “Don’t, come on, don’t, no, Drag Strip, Breakdown—”

Thump. She keened when Motormaster smacked her head into the desk again.

“You think _they’re_ gonna help you?” Motormaster laughed, and Breakdown felt, inexplicably, even worse. She was pretty sure she was sweating through her shirt.

Drag Strip had finally looked up when Wildrider called out to her, but she looked more anticipatory than chagrined. 

“Fuck,” said Wildrider. “I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to— _what are you doing_?” she yelped. 

“Cutting this stupid shit off,” Motormaster said. She held up a hank of hair and let it fall, fluttering to the floor, where it lay dark and soft and oddly lonely-looking. “Better stay still, or I’ll get something important. Keep talking.”

“I’m sorry,” mumbled Wildrider. She didn’t move, and Motormaster kept snipping at her hair, pulling away long pieces of it as she went. Soon, it littered the floor in careless chunks. 

“Yeah? What for?”

“Inconveniencing you, and—fuck, stop, I’m not going to have any hair left.” She wiggled, trying to get the leverage with one of her hands to hit Motormaster.

Motormaster put her off hand on Wildrider’s head and crushed it to the desk, then did something that made her _**yowl**_. The next hank of hair came out in a weird clump, bloody at one end. 

“Hand slipped a little there,” said Motormaster, pointedly. There was blood on her fingers, and on the handle of the scissors. It gleamed on their blades when the overhead light hit them just right.

_You can’t actually be going to scalp her_ , Breakdown thought. 

But she still didn’t say anything.

She knew that Wildrider would have done nothing for her, had their situations been reversed—and she knew, even if she had tried to interrupt, Wildrider wouldn’t have thanked her for it, not really. Her guts felt knotty and tight, and beneath her jeans there was sweat trickling down the back of her knee. 

The pain of actually getting cut seemed to make something in Wildrider cave completely. Her face crumpled and she began to cry. It made her go bright red and her voice turned all shaky and raw.

Motormaster seemed utterly unaffected. 

Drag Strip swapped a glance with Breakdown. Breakdown shook her head minutely.

“I’m sorry,” she hiccoughed. “I inconvenienced you and made, ow, _fuck, ow_ , I made Breakdown and Drag Strip pick up my, uh, my slack.”

“Because?” Motormaster said. Another snip.

Breakdown couldn’t see clearly beneath Motormaster’s hands, but the floor was littered with so much glossy, curling hair that she had to have been halfway bald by then.

“What?”

“Because _what_ , Wildrider?” she growled. 

“Ow, fuck, fucking _stop_ ,” wailed Wildrider, instead of continuing. 

“Fucking _say it_ ,” snarled Motormaster, grinding the side of her face into the desk. 

“Fuck! Say what!”

“You’re a dumb slag,” Motormaster reminded her, low and intent, “And you thought drinking and partying was more important than your family.”

Crying harder, Wildrider repeated what she’d said. 

Wildrider's voice trailed off on the last syllable of 'family', and then the world seemed very quiet, narrowed to the creak of Wildrider's leather jacket and the gasp of her laboured breathing and the occasional hitched sob.

Breakdown could feel her own blood rushing. Her guts squeezed unhappily. As long as Motormaster didn't look at her, she thought, clenching her damp hands into fists at her sides, she'd be okay.

Motormaster kept going, scissors flashing in the light, snip-snip. 

“And is it?” 

“No.”

“No, _what_?” Motormaster prompted, like she was just exhausted by how hard Wildrider was making all of this. She rolled Wildrider’s head—quite against her flailing—and kept going with a new patch of hair. 

“No, drinking and partying isn’t more important than my family,” Wildrider got out with her mouth pressed to the wood of the desk. 

The snipping of scissors stopped. Finally. 

Motormaster discarded a last chunk of hair.

“There,” she said. 

Gently, she patted Wildrider’s face. Wildrider flinched, hard. 

“Was that so hard?”

And she let go and stepped back, leaving Wildrider shaking on the desk. A second later, freed, she tried to roll off the table—but Breakdown wasn’t really surprised when she stumbled over her own foot. Her eyes were wide and huge, her pupils tiny, and her whole face was red and wet. 

Her hair was gone on the left, but there was a streak of bright blood where the scissors had scraped her scalp in the process. She looked half crazed.

“Wildrider, you can go,” said Motormaster without looking back at her. She wiped the blades of the office scissors on her jeans, first one side, then another. She closed them and dumped them back in a drawer. 

Wildrider didn’t wait, didn’t swear, didn’t turn and scream back at Motormaster. She shouldered right past Drag Strip and bolted out the door. 

A moment later, they heard the bang of the outer door too.

There was a long, silent pause.

If nothing else, at least that was over. 

…And at least Breakdown hadn’t been the one on the desk.

“Sooo,” said Drag Strip into the silence. “Is that, like, uh, all?”

“No, actually. You,” Motormaster growled, pointing her finger directly at Breakdown. 

Breakdown flinched. 

_Oh no_.

“I—Me?” Her whole body was alert to the smallest twitch of Motormaster’s fierce scowl. Wildrider was gone—probably bawling in the car park—but her panic was still hot and oppressive in the air.

Drag Strip had frozen at ‘no’, but now she looked warily at Breakdown, as though already glad that it wasn’t her who was in trouble.

“Yeah, _you_ , dumbass. You need to wear your damn uniform properly. We got a complaint this week—”

Breakdown’s stomach flipped over and sunk. The first thought that crossed her mind was the same thought she’d had over and over since last week.

“From—from Pharma?” she said, and was almost shocked to hear herself ask aloud. She’d left that stupid delivery knowing Pharma’s wife was hurt or offended or something, but she hadn’t really expected she’d make some… petty complaint about Breakdown’s uniform. That felt… bad. 

The question stalled Motormaster for a second. Her dark eyes narrowed.

“No,” she said suspiciously. “I haven’t heard anything from _her_ since you submitted the paperwork.”

Breakdown looked away from her searching, hostile gaze. It didn’t mean anything—Motormaster was hostile to everyone—but Breakdown hated the feeling of those eyes on her. She could only imagine what they were seeing. 

“ _Was_ there something to complain about? Breakdown, that woman might be a bitch but she’s richer than god, so you’d better not have fucked up.”

“No,” Breakdown said, too loud. 

Drag Strip’s running shoes creaked as she shifted uncomfortably, but the full weight of Motormaster’s attention remained on Breakdown. 

Motormaster crossed her arms, scowled furiously, and waited. Breakdown’s heart thudded in her chest. 

“No, I didn’t even see Pharma. Her wife signed for it. It was fine. I just…” She stopped. Hesitated. 

“Wife, wife… ah, yeah, I saw her once. Knockers or something, wasn’t it?”

Breakdown winced. She’d bet she understood _exactly_ how that slip up had happened. “ _Out._ Knock Out.”

“Oh. Well, Pharma’s name’s on the invoice so… whatever. You’re stalling. What was the problem?” 

“It wasn’t a problem, really, okay. She was just really, um… friendly.” By the time she got to the end of that sentence, she was mumbling, and she really hoped Motormaster wasn’t going to make her elaborate. 

She didn’t. Instead, Motormaster stared at her for a long, incredulous moment, and then emitted a loud, sharp bark of laughter. 

“With _you_?” she demanded. “No accounting for taste, huh?”

Breakdown stared firmly at Motormaster’s shoulder, which was, just, so much better than trying to actually look her in the face. 

“Guess not,” she said. It was the same thought she’d had several times, and only served to make her more confused and anxious. Maybe she was lying? Maybe she’d made it up? She didn’t know. 

Motormaster didn’t care about her internal insecurities, though. 

“If you’re going to fuck a client’s wife, Breakdown, the least you could do is do it good enough you don’t expect her to _call up and complain about it!_ ” But she was laughing—and now Drag Strip, apparently having caught on, was laughing too. 

Breakdown didn’t mind being laughed at so much. It meant she wasn’t in trouble, and wasn’t about to, you know, become Wildrider. 

Motormaster waved her off. “Just wear the damn uniform properly, you idiot,” she said, shaking her head.

Breakdown sagged a little. Her stomach felt light and her limbs strange and sensitive with the sudden chemical rush of relief.

Then Motormaster turned a calculating eye on her again: “Pharma’s pretty regular—you can take all the deliveries out there, if the family likes you so much. Yeah, yeah, we can swap you out with Drag Strip this week.”

The relief drained away. Breakdown stared at Motormaster in much the way a bunny stares at a hungry snake. 

“Something to say?” Motormaster asked, deceptively mild.

Breakdown glanced at the hair littering the floor all around Motormaster's desk.

“…no,” she said.

"Yeah, I didn't think so." 

Well.

…Great. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The content warning** : part of the fic's graphic violence warning is for Motormaster. In this chapter Breakdown watches her injure and humiliate someone.
> 
> This chapter took me a long time to work out somehow, yikes. Next chapter we're back with Knock Out.
> 
> If you liked something please do feel free to let me know in a comment. Otherwise have a good night.


	9. Chapter 9

Knock Out was actually waiting for Pharma for a change. Shed gotten home miraculously on time for once and had decided that, whatever else happened, she was going to have to talk to her wife about the prospect of divorce at some point—and better sooner rather than later.

So it was that she was stone-sober, still wearing her work clothes, and loitering in Pharma’s study. When she heard the door open downstairs with the familiar jangle of keys and clatter of footsteps, she was peering at one of Pharma’s ugly little sculptures, which lived on one of the big wooden bookcases in her study: a Medusa’s head, with gold coins for eyes. The meaning of the sculpture, if it even had one, was entirely lost on Knock Out. All she saw in it was an ugly, vaguely female face and a load of bronze snakes. 

She leaned back against the huge desk with its pristine leather inlay and closed her eyes, tracking Pharma’s progress through the big house by sound alone. Her clicking heels changed from marble to tile and then back again, and grew louder as she came up the big, broad staircase. 

It was a familiar series of sounds, but for whatever reason, Knock Out found her heart beating hard and fast, as though the unpleasant conversation with Pharma was a thing to fear. Maybe it was. But it didn’t _always_ pay to be a coward.

Knock Out steeled herself as Pharma’s footsteps finally closed in on the study where she waited. 

She saw Pharma pause in the doorway when she registered that Knock Out was already there. A minute hesitation halted Pharma’s steady steps. Her expression flickered for just a split second. 

Knock Out felt the corners of her own mouth twist bitterly. 

“Knock Out,” Pharma said finally, coming in. She removed her jacket and hung it precisely over the back of her chair. 

“Evening,” said Knock Out, evenly, staring right at the ugly sculpture instead of Pharma’s face. “I want to talk with you.”

Pharma glanced once at her face. She wrinkled her nose delicately and turned away before heading to the side board to get herself a large brandy. 

Well, there went all Knock Out’s virtuous determination to do this completely sober. “Pour me one, too,” she sighed. 

Pharma ignored this, finished her drink and poured another for herself. Then she said: “Alright, let’s have it then. What’s the matter now?”

She sounded exactly as though she couldn’t wait to get through whatever petty, insignificant problem Knock Out was having so she could be doing literally anything else. This was, Knock Out reflected, part of the problem. 

“Fine,” she agreed. At some point she had crossed her arms and hunched, but she wasn’t sure when. “I want a divorce.”

“This again?” sighed Pharma. She took on a tone of exaggerated, dismissive disinterest: “Knock Out, this is becoming absurd. We’re not _getting a divorce_ , you’re being ridiculous.”

“It isn’t a two person decision.” Knock Out set her jaw, and didn’t look back at Pharma. She didn’t think she necessarily wanted to see whatever expression was on her face. “I am trying to discuss it with you because it affects both of us, but I don’t _need your permission_ to divorce you.”

She didn’t have to be looking at Pharma’s face to see her roll her eyes. She was familiar with the way her head moved when she did it. 

“I don’t have time for this right now. I have work to do that’s actually important.”

“As opposed to what?” Knock Out wondered. She knew, intellectually, that she was allowing Pharma to derail this conversation into a stupid row, but in the moment it was too compelling a temptation: “Is my work supposed to be unimportant? I am a _doctor_.”

Pharma snorted. “Knock Out, you’re a fucking _dermatologist_.” 

Knock Out glared at her and tried, very hard, to hold her tongue. 

Pharma exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. “For what possible reason could you even want a divorce?” 

“Because I’m _lonely_ and _miserable_ with you!” Knock Out bellowed. Her voice echoed alarmingly, too loud in the room between them.

There was no stunned silence. Pharma didn’t even pause. She just curled her lip.

“So _what_?” she demanded. “You want to be miserable and alone and single? It’s not like there’s someone else who’s occupying your time—is moping around and drinking yourself stupid all alone _that_ much of a luxury?”

“Enough,” snapped Knock Out, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. She could feel a potent mix of anger and anxiety boiling in her guts. “You’re trying to avoid the topic. You’re busy, I’m bus—” 

Here, Pharma snorted inelegantly.

“— _I’m busy_ ,” Knock Out ploughed on, grinding her teeth, and didn’t stop to address Pharma’s clear sneering disdain for her time. 

“We are going to divorce, Pharma, and I want to talk it through with you so it is as little inconvenience to both of us as possible.” Her voice was shakier than she wanted it to be, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She was mad, and frustrated and miserable all at once—and Pharma, defensive and naturally contrary, was of course doing her level best to make it worse.

“Then you’ll have to grow a spine and serve me papers all on your own, won’t you?” she hissed right back.

Knock Out bit the inside of her mouth. Great. This was. This was just going amazingly well, at this point. She exhaled hard and long. _Stay on point_ , she reminded herself. “Pharma,” she started. “I know this is—” frustrating and demeaning and enraging “—difficult, and that you haven’t had a lot of time to reflect on it—”

“Oh, shut up.” Pharma took a step in toward her. She was the same height as Knock Out in her slightly lower heels. Her blond hair was coming out after the long day she’d had, gleaming like a halo under the light glittering above them, and there was a spiteful tightness around her eyes. 

“You don’t want to do it the hard way _only_ because you know that _everything _you have? Is mine. The company that made all this money? Mine. This house? Mine. The staff? Employed by me—”__

__Knock Out scowled furiously. Her pulse was thumping hard, her fists balled by her sides. She raised one hand expressively and opened her mouth to argue._ _

__Pharma grabbed her wrist, squeezing tight enough to hurt._ _

____

“No, shut up, you’ve said enough,” she informed her sharply. “You _know_ that you’re not getting half, you selfish, grasping, parasitic, pathetic little— _let go of me_.” She cut her own rant short. Her voice was flat, hard and eerily steady.

____

Knock Out certainly did not let go of her. She dug her fingers into the delicate structure of her wrist, squeezing tighter. 

____

Pharma’s discomfort, her loosening grip, her sudden hard tugging on her wrist, her darting eyes—it all felt strangely satisfying to watch. It was nice to feel like she was the one in control for a change. She only tightened her grip.

____

“ _Let go of me_ ,” Pharma demanded, louder. 

____

Knock Out wasn’t even drunk when she looked at her and thought, with only anger and frustration and undiluted contempt for her, _perhaps Starscream is right_.

____

…Pharma was right, too. 

____

“You’re right,” Knock Out said.

____

Pharma was so—so _like this_ , so much trouble, so mean and hostile and _difficult_. Knock Out realised with a wild, lightning-strike clarity that she just… wanted her gone. 

____

She did not want to think about Pharma anymore. And, no, she didn’t want to spend years eking out an agreement about it, dissecting her life down to its smallest components and bickering bitterly over every minute part. 

____

“Let— _what_?” 

____

Knock Out let go. She felt so incredibly calm inside, despite her thundering pulse and her shaking hands. Her head was empty of anything but white noise. 

____

Pharma took another step away from Knock Out, sharp and wary now. She drew her wrist into her chest. 

____

It was a curiously vulnerable posture. It looked wonderful on her. 

____

“Knock Out,” she started, in suspicious and hostile tones. She sounded a little scared, too.

____

“Pour me that drink, Pharma,” Knock Out said.

____

There was a long, silent pause. 

____

But Pharma was still between Knock Out and the sideboard with the brandy. 

____

“Fine,” she said, shortly. She scoffed, and turned to pour. “Frankly I’m shocked you got this far sober.”

____

Knock Out picked up the ugly Medusa’s-head sculpture from its shelf beside the many leather-bound books that Pharma had undoubtedly read but never actually enjoyed. It was heavy. It felt solid and really very reliable in her hand.

____

It slammed into the side of Pharma’s skull with a tremendous _**crunch**_ that Knock Out felt echo up her hand and vibrate in her own bones.

____

The brandy spilled. Pharma crumpled, taking the bottle and two glasses with her. They all hit the floor at the same time. 

____

There was silence for a long, confused second. Knock Out’s heart raced so hard she could feel it in her skull: _thump, thump, thump_.

____

The quiet was interminable and echoing. Knock Out’s first clear thought was, horribly: _Shit, she’s going to get back up, and then I’ll be done for assault._

____

But she didn’t. 

____

She didn’t move at all. 

____

Didn’t groan, didn’t twitch, didn’t—

____

“Shit!” Knock Out’s numb fingers dropped the sculpture upon the rug, and she scrambled down to her knees beside her. 

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have mixed feelings about this chapter, but I think they're too long to express in an end note, ha. 
> 
> Please leave me a comment if something interested you or you liked part of this chapter, and if commenting is your jam. Otherwise have a good night. :)


	10. Chapter 10

Knock Out had, despite all appearances, pretty steady nerves. She’d had to develop steady nerves—and steady hands—at some point, of course. She was regularly doing minor surgery now, but earlier on in her career she’d been a resident like any other doctor. 

After running her first code, she’d more or less figured that was the be-all and end-all for stressful emergencies. If she could keep her cool through that, then she could keep her cool through anything.

But Knock Out had trained for years to know what to do during a medical emergency in a professional setting. Those were _other people’s_ emergencies. 

This was different. 

The ‘medical emergency’ part had... probably already passed, for one: she’d crushed part of Pharma’s skull _and_ snapped her neck, and given the way it had broken Knock Out felt pretty certain that the second cervical vertebra had severed her spinal cord, and that wasn't an injury people usually came back from. She couldn’t be completely certain but… numbly, she put her hand on Pharma’s warm neck and tried to feel out the break there. There was a pulse, erratic and weak and confused. 

Knock Out considered, briefly, calling an ambulance. 

_What would I even tell them_? she wondered. 

Was she supposed to say ‘well, you see, I hit her in the head with this ugly sculpture’?

Nothing useful came to mind. 

She withdrew her hand. It was tacky with blood that had leaked from Pharma’s ear into her blonde hair and down her neck. It was bright red when it came out, but the dampness dried quickly in the cool air, thick and tacky, and it turned quickly to a dull, rusty colour on her fingertips.

Knock Out did not call an ambulance. 

She sat down instead and… did absolutely nothing. Her face felt cold. It took a long few minutes for her heart to slow its frantic racing, and then she thought about the situation she was in here and it picked right back up. 

At length she got back up and checked Pharma for a pulse again. No pulse. If she _was_ going to call an ambulance, now was a good time to start chest compressions, wasn’t it? She had to decide—really, really decide—right now, right this second. The heart and the brain were the main concerns, and once the heart stopped, the brain had only minutes… 

Not that a severed spinal cord was salvageable.

Not that anything would be salvageable, now that she'd sat here in confused panic for so long.

Knock Out... did not start chest compressions.

Was she dead? Properly dead?

After a few long, heart-pounding seconds that dripped past like cold syrup, she tried to provoke a response by digging her nails hard into the skin right below Pharma’s fingernails. Nothing. 

She was dead.

Maybe she should—? Knock Out fumbled her phone out from a pocket, tapped the ‘torch’ function and raised one of Pharma’s eyelids to shine the beam at her eye, but her pupils, though massively dilated, did not respond. 

Definitely dead. Very, very… dead. 

Knock Out straightened and put the phone down on the leather inlay of Pharma’s desk. Then she picked it up again and turned off the torch. 

She’d gotten a smear of blood on the case. She wiped that down. She put it back. She went to wash her hands. 

In the nearest bathroom the light seemed cold and very white. Her skin in the mirror was too pale, her eyes large and dark and surprised looking. She looked away from her face to focus on her hands and the hot water and soap, scrubbing methodically until long after the blood had gone. 

There was a dull heaviness in her guts as she thought about the situation she’d left in the study. An irrational anxiety welled in her: what if someone found the body?

It was absurd. They didn’t have friends who dropped casually by—they each hated the other’s, and never invited them. Their housekeeper and cook, who Pharma had known for decades, would not return until six in the morning. 

Still, the thought haunted her: what if someone saw it? What if someone found out? 

How did one _hide_ a body?

Knock Out had signed death certificates before, but such bodies just went to the morgue… She turned the taps off and looked down at her hands for a few long moments. 

Then she went back to the study and stood there staring at Pharma’s crumpled body. 

She hesitated. Then she picked the phone up again and dialled. 

“It’s practically _midnight_ ,” growled Starscream, who had nevertheless picked up by the third ring. Her voice was low and rough. 

Knock Out hadn’t noticed the time. “I apologise,” she said, trying to capture her regular levels of breezy unconcern. She wasn’t sure if she was hitting the mark. Probably not. “The time quite slipped by.” 

There was a short pause. 

“And what do you want?” Starscream now sounded both awake and deeply suspicious. 

Knock Out hesitated. She couldn’t say ‘help hiding my wife’s body’ over the phone, could she? It was all digital now, surely her provider would be storing call records? And those could be—requisitioned, or something, by any investigation?

She had no idea, but she felt given the circumstances it would be better to be more cautious rather than less. Which meant getting Starscream _here_ , without outright saying it. 

“ _Knock Out_ ,” snarled Starscream impatiently.

She blew out a breath. “Could you come here, please,” she said finally. 

There was a much longer, much more incredulous pause.

“Have you _lost your mind_ ,” Starscream muttered, muffled like her head was buried in her pillows. “ _Why_?”

“I’m—drunk,” Knock Out said. She wasn’t. She absolutely wished she was, but she wasn’t. “And… lonely?”

Starscream made a noise deep in her throat. “And you called me up at midnight because you want _me_ there to, what? _Take a picture_?”

“Starscream.” Knock Out clenched her jaw and ground her teeth. She didn’t need this. But she needed Starscream to show up, so she didn’t hang up on her and hurl the phone at the wall like she wanted to. “Are you coming or not?”

There was a deep groan. A long, resentful silence. 

“…I’ll be an hour.”

Relief washed over Knock Out. 

“Thank you,” she said, a little too sincerely.

Another long beat of silence ensued. 

“All right,” muttered Starscream grudgingly. Fabric rustled, and then she ended the call without saying goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick early update today, to make me feel like I got something done on a Sunday lol.
> 
> If you liked something about this chapter, feel free to drop me a comment!


	11. Chapter 11

Knock Out was once again left alone with Pharma’s body. She was sick of looking at it. She turned away and went instead to find Pharma’s phone and keys and wallet, all things that would presumably need to go missing with her, but that didn’t take very long. She ended up back in the bathroom doing familiar, comforting things: mindlessly touching up her hair, making sure her lipstick wasn’t creased, checking her complexion products were still matte and dry.

Starscream showed up about fifty minutes after her phone call. Herr low-slung, silver vehicle rolled at last up to the gates, and when she leaned out and smacked the button for the intercom, the only part of her that the cameras caught was her hand with its short, red-painted nails making an obscene gesture at the lens.

Knock Out didn’t even blink. She just hit the button to open the gates and listened to the gravel crunch outside. 

Starscream was dressed in only a tank top and dark jeans, and she’d obviously taken her jewellery off at some point and then not bothered to put it back on in the middle of the night just to come and see Knock Out. Even without the jewellery or makeup, Starscream was uncommonly pretty. It was odd to see her without any of those trappings—her skin seemed bare and vulnerable. It was a deceiving look, since it was the same Starscream as ever. Her mind was still ticking along behind her eyes.

“You look horrible,” she said, with no hint of sympathy whatsoever, when Knock Out opened the door. “Are you going to cry? If you’re going to cry, there is not enough liquor in the world,” she added, narrowing her eyes at Knock Out. 

“Just shut up and come inside,” hissed Knock Out. She grabbed her by the arm and tugged her inside without waiting for the response. 

The door banged shut behind them.

Starscream yanked her arm away—Knock Out didn’t try to keep it—and took a step back, scowling furiously. “Knock Out, I don’t know what—” she began in a dangerous growl. 

“It’s about Pharma,” Knock Out interrupted, low and tense, as though somehow saying it loudly would change the truth. 

Starscream stopped talking.

There was a short, awful pause as she put it together internally—why Pharma, why now, why on Earth _her_ —and the big clock deeper in the house ticked loudly and maddeningly. Knock Out was going to get rid of that thing just as soon as she could.

Finally, Starscream relaxed. Her shoulders dropped. Her weight settled back on her hips. Her arms fell away, loose and empty by her sides, and then she propped a hand on one hip. 

“Unfortunate tumble down the stairs, was it?” she drawled then. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Oh, Knock Out _wished_ she’d pushed Pharma down the stairs—that might have been easier to pass off as an accident. She shook her head. “Come on.”

The stairs—absent of any bodies—seemed interminable with the tap-tap-tap of Starscream’s boots following her up them, loud on the marble. But then they were over in what suddenly seemed like only a fraction of a second. They made it to the study, and the body within.

Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet. It wouldn’t begin for a few hours. Anerobic glycolysis would keep the muscles from stiffening for a while yet, Knock Out thought, vaguely and irrelevantly. And then, equally irrelevant: _remember when she used to put her face on my chest in bed?_

Her face was a mess now, but Knock Out stared down at it and remembered looping an arm over her, how her hair would get in Knock Out’s mouth—annoying—and the comforting rise and fall of her breath. 

Fuck. They hadn’t done that for five years at least. Knock Out couldn’t remember the last time Pharma had voluntarily touched her, and when it had stopped, she hadn’t noticed or missed it. She wanted, inappropriately, to laugh. 

Starscream hummed thoughtfully, unsqueamish, and crouched down for a better look. 

“Well, well,” she mused, eyeing Knock Out sideways. “What a mess. You’re wasted in your consultation rooms, aren’t you? Are you sure..? I’m just _asking_ , Knock Out, no reason to get upset,” she said, in response to whatever the expression on Knock Out’s face indicated. Then she looked back at Phar—at the body—and frowned. “There’ll be no playing it off as though this was an accident. A shame—getting a missing person declared dead can be tricky, but having someone find her body will be quite a risk.”

She looked up again. “Ugh, sit down, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

Knock Out sat down in Pharma’s armchair. The soft leather upholstery creaked quietly around her, like a soft sigh in what seemed likely to be a long conversation. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. 

“Legally speaking,” Starscream said, standing upright again, “it will all go much more smoothly if you can confirm her death without implicating yourself. It’s easy enough to have your marriage dissolved after a year or two if your partner goes missing so you can remarry, but getting all of her assets transferred to you will be much more difficult. Are there any relatives?”

“A third cousin… or something,” Knock Out said. 

Pharma did not like Ratchet, and, reading between the lines, Knock Out did not think Ratchet much cared for Pharma either.

But Pharma did like to stalk her on social media every two or three months and complain about her for days. Knock Out was pretty certain they were… third cousins? But they might have been something else. Second cousins once removed? She shook her head. 

“They’re not on speaking terms. I don’t…”

“You really did pick wonderfully, didn’t you?” Starscream said, almost admiringly. “And she’s just… she’s _so_ rich. Most of my husbands haven’t had half this kind of wealth.”

_Yes_ , thought Knock Out, _but once upon a time I really liked Pharma_.

Starscream, on the other hand, definitely practised emotional distance from her “partners”. That was why she was able to get over them so fast, just as surely as it must have been one of the reasons they chased her so hard in the first place.

“Were you both drinking, then?” She sniffed, and then nodded. “Yes, you were, good.” 

Knock Out didn’t bother to correct her and tell her that she, in fact, was horribly, desperately sober.

“I think it will be best if we ensure her body turns up, but we shall have to be creative… you won’t be able to do much about the skull, will you? Never mind, never mind, I know just the place. Go get whichever car she uses most often, will you? This rug will have to be gotten rid of, too… we can burn that…”

And so Knock Out found herself climbing into the driver’s seat of her own car and following Starscream, who drove Pharma’s car (“Well,” she’d said, reasonably, “ _you’re_ not driving with her, you’ll put yourself off a cliff!”) and took them both—and Pharma’s body—over toward the coastline. 

The drive only took twenty minutes, but between the sick feeling in Knock Out’s gut and the hot anxiety in her chest, it seemed to take a lot longer. 

It was even worse without Starscream’s presence to distract her from the silence. Even the soft rumble of the car seemed as invasive as a drill to the skull.

At first the occasional street light washed over her in short, bright strips, making Knock Out’s shaking hands stand out sharp and pale on the wheel. But then there were just long stretches of black, blank road, winding out in the glare of the headlights ahead of them. Starscream knew well enough to avoid any cameras that could pick up the car, but that meant taking long, little-used back ways.

The part of the coast at which they rolled to a stop was not often frequented: it was preceded by big yellow signs reading ‘CAUTION: HAZARDOUS’, which flamed bright in their headlights. 

She pulled the car aside when Starscream did. A moment later, she flinched at the tap on her window. 

It was only Starscream again. 

“Get out and help me,” she commanded, and Knock Out did. 

Starscream was a different height.

“Are those Pharma’s shoes?” Knock Out wondered. She was certain Starscream had been wearing boots. These shoes were white and scarlet with a three inch heel. 

Starscream didn’t glance down at her feet. “We’re the same size. Hurry up.”

Pharma wasn’t using them. Knock Out didn’t try to protest. 

Pharma had a whole closet of very high, very expensive shoes. What would Knock Out do with all of Pharma’s things…?

They headed for the car, and Knock Out did nothing more than what she was told. Starscream arranged Pharma and did something to the pedals, while Knock Out rummaged around in the car for anything valuable or incriminating. 

A few moments later, Knock Out was watching the car careen off over the cliff’s edge, down to land upon the rocks below with an enormous, bone-jarring crash. The tearing of metal drowned out the breaking glass. 

The sound seemed colossal, loud like it should have been audible for miles. 

Knock Out flinched and blinked rapidly. Her palms were sweating and her heart was still racing wildly. 

“Do you think someone heard that?”

“Out here?” Starscream wondered. “No?”

She was right, of course—they were miles from even the nearest lighthouse, and the only lights Knock Out could see were on a very distant ship. 

“Get in the car, I’ll drive back,” Starscream ordered. “I need a drink. And we need to talk.” 

And so Knock Out got in the car, and Starscream drove back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun note: while I don't want to give you the (very false) impression that I am trying to be realistic about any of the situations in this fic (no!!!... please... no), I do sometimes do the research in the first draft and I thought it was really cool to learn that postmortem blood alcohol measurements can be incredibly shady due to decomposition. Basically dead bodies are also fermenting during putrefaction. Since I changed up my initial method and circumstances of death for Pharma in this fic, this is now completely irrelevant here. But cool anyway.
> 
> Anyway, as usual, if you liked something about this chapter, or you have any questions or anything, feel free to leave me a comment, or come find me on twitter or tumblr or whatever. Can anyone guess (only if you want to!!) what Starscream wants to "talk about" with Knock Out? :)
> 
> Have a good night!


	12. Chapter 12

The car wasn’t silent long. 

“You’re probably going to need to message some of her friends to ask if they’ve seen her tomorrow, things like that,” Starscream said pragmatically. “Assuming she usually comes home at night.”

Knock Out nodded. Whatever Pharma’s indiscretions might have been (it would be comforting to assume she’d had them, but Knock Out had no real proof) she usually at least returned home of an evening. Eventually. Sometimes not until eight or ten, but Knock Out did see her in passing most nights. If not, then she woke when Pharma’s weight moved their enormous mattress.

“I’ll… find her secretary’s number. Somewhere.” Pharma’s secretary was a student in some health profession. Knock Out had met her a few times, and found her a sweet-tempered young woman by no means deserved to have to work for Pharma. If she tried for a while, she may even remember her name. “Do I have to report to the police?” she wondered.

“If Pharma didn’t come home for a few days, what would you do?”

Knock Out frowned. Pharma was not erratic—Knock Out was the spontaneous one—but it didn’t mean she always let Knock Out in on what her plans were. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d sent a text after forty eight hours only to be condescendingly ‘reminded’ of a conference or business event she’d never heard of. “I’d text her. Then ask around for a few days before making a report.” 

Pharma herself had rarely even texted when Knock Out had slept on Starscream’s couch instead of coming home. 

“Okay,” she said slowly. Her thoughts felt like they were moving through molasses, but she was starting to get the picture of what her next few days would need to be like. Act like Pharma just hadn’t come home. Fine, she could do that. 

Starscream hummed, and then they drove on in silence. 

Finally, Knock Out said, distantly: “You know, that car was two hundred grand.” 

“Then I’m sure it’s insured,” Starscream pointed out placidly. 

“Against _that_?” 

She shrugged, unsympathetic and unconcerned. 

They made it back to the house and Starscream called out, “Get me a drink,” before starting up the broad marble stairs again. Her shoes were a familiar click-click on the steps now and it took Knock Out a long moment to remember that it was because she was wearing Pharma’s shoes. 

“Right,” mumbled Knock Out, and then she went to their large, spotless and infrequently used kitchen to pick out a drink. 

She grabbed a bottle of _something something blanc de blancs something champagne _, which was undoubtedly Pharma’s. Knock Out, personally, tended to roll her eyes at the very concept of _terroir_ , but Starscream liked champagne. ...Or at least she certainly liked the _idea_ of champagne. __

__She popped the cork poured two flutes, knocked one back—ugh, bubbles—and then poured the second one again before taking both glasses and bottle back to the ground floor parlour._ _

__While Knock Out had drifted numbly to wine fridge, she could hear Starscream clattering back down the stairs. With remarkably little intervention on her behalf, the bloodied rug was rolled up, carried out and stashed in the boot of Starscream’s sleek, silver sports car._ _

__“What are you going to do with the rug?” Knock Out wondered, when Starscream reentered the house._ _

__“Never mind that. You’ll simply have to trust me with it,” Starscream said, smiling.__

__Knock Out's face must have shown how she felt about that statement, because Starscream's eyes narrowed._ _

__“Doctor,” she chided, “you don't trust me?"_ _

__Knock Out hesitated._ _

__"Too late for that," scoffed Starscream. "Besides, you already know so much about _my_ operation. What could it possibly hurt?”_ _

__...This was, of course, exactly the detail Knock Out didn't want to be surprised by. Knock Out had gone out of her way for years to avoid as much knowledge of Starscream’s operation as she could, but Starscream was right in that one picked up a lot in passing._ _

__She looked away._ _

__“Fine.”_ _

__And so the heavily bloodied rug remained destined for some undisclosed location, and Starscream remained, unfortunately, smiling._ _

__At length, Starscream collected her drink and sat with her shoulders braced against the hand-carved, leather-upholstered back of the overwrought Victorian lounge, propping Pharma’s shoes up on the coffee table._ _

__“What is that,” she wondered, gesturing with her glass, while Knock Out found a discarded edition of the _Journal of Pharmacotherapeutic Law_ to use as a coaster. That would also be Pharma’s. _ _

__They probably had real coasters somewhere. She didn’t go looking for one._ _

__Knock Out didn’t even have to look up to know that Starscream was talking about the sculpture—a rotating atlas globe cast to appear as though it was made entirely out of teeth. The artist was famous. It was, supposedly (Knock Out had been told), about consumerism—and of course had sold for many thousands, and would surely appreciate like crazy. Maybe that was part of whatever it was meant to be saying, too._ _

__“It’s ...art?” said Knock Out. She probably sounded about as certain as she felt._ _

__“Is it?” Starscream wondered. Her eyebrow rose and rose, a sharp dark line on her forehead._ _

__“…I’m not an artist.”_ _

__Starscream eyed it for a moment longer. “Alright,” she said, in the tone of a person who wasn’t touching that one. Then she poured another drink. “So, I said I wanted to talk. It’s about my lip fillers.”_ _

__“What? _Now_?” Knock Out wondered. _ _

__“Oh, did you want me to leave you alone?” Starscream asked her, so pleasantly that she must have known it was the very last thing Knock Out wanted right then. “To... get some sleep, perhaps?” she suggested._ _

__Usually comfortable in her own company, Knock Out had no idea what she’d do if she was left to her own devices right now. She sighed._ _

__“Come here, then,” she said, turning to plant herself on the coffee table across from Starscream’s seat on the couch. She leaned in to gesture Starscream’s face into her hands. “Let me see.”_ _

__Starscream gulped the rest of her drink and set the glass down, swinging her feet off the table so she could lean forward._ _

__Knock Out inspected her face. “What are you actually hoping for here in terms of outcomes? You want to see a difference right away?”_ _

__“As opposed to what?” Starscream scoffed._ _

__“Some people want natural look,” Knock Out said mildly. “People really notice, when you get lip fillers, otherwise.” Most doctors also wanted their work to look as close to perfectly natural as they could get it. Knock Out appreciated this perspective, but she mostly just wanted to get paid—and to keep her patients happy (but not so happy they didn’t come back, obviously), so her reputation grew, and she could charge more. A beautiful cycle. “You really don’t want to look _over_ filled.” _ _

__“Hm. No,” Starscream agreed, touching her own lip thoughtfully._ _

__“So?”_ _

__“What if… What if what I want is for people to look at my mouth and then go home and cry themselves to sleep thinking about what my lips would feel like on their cli—”_ _

__“Okay! Okay. Thank you. I understand.”_ _

__Knock Out paused. She pursed her own lips._ _

__She wasn’t sure if it would be wise to point out that many women presumably _already did this_. Starscream was not unaware of her own personal charms. _ _

__“Someone particular in mind?” she wondered mildly, leaning away from Starscream’s face to pour more drinks._ _

Starscream glanced away. “No,” she said shortly, which Knock Out assumed meant ‘yes’. _Clearly a problem that can be fixed with cosmetic surgery then_ , she thought drily to herself. 

__“Whatever you say, big girl,” she drawled. “Anyway, you’re going to need to figure out what cry-yourself-to-sleep level clit-sucking lips look like—realistically—and get back to me.”_ _

__“Hmm. Really only lasts six months, though?” Starscream said, peering into her glass and its pale golden fizz._ _

__“Maybe a year, if you respond well and depending on the formula. Or a week, if you hate it and want it dissolved,” she added thoughtfully._ _

__Starscream eyed her. “Do you get many of those, Doctor?” she wondered suspiciously._ _

__“No. But it happens. It’s a big change to how your face looks. Sometimes people don’t always like big changes, even the ones they think they want.”_ _

__Starscream gave her a long, steady look. “I’m not likely to change my mind.”_ _

__People tended to say that. Knock Out told them they could get their fillers dissolved anyway. It wasn’t as black and white as they thought, usually._ _

__“I suppose not,” she said, instead of explaining it._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously in this universe there are other characters whose lives only briefly intersect with those of Knock Out or Breakdown so it doesn't show much of what's going on for them (eg., Jazz, Ratchet and First Aid got tiny references in the last few chapters), but some of them have a lot more interaction (eg., Starscream, who isn't fooling anyone). 
> 
> The most tragic is the ones who never even intersect, so I don't even get to like... nod to them. Here's one that I have no narrative reason to tell you about:
> 
> Somewhere in this universe, an 18 year old Fulcrum is emerging, like a deeply maladapted and scarred butterfly, from the cocoon of a juvenile custodial sentence. Misfire has been trying to get her undergrad degree (whatever it ends up being) for a decade, and lives in the 3x3 backyard shack of a married couple for $90/week. (Misfire blogs about the resaleability of ""reclaimed items"" and Fulcrum is just riffling through a bin for a half-full sack of potatoes she saw someone toss out the back of the market: a love story.)
> 
> ...Anyway! Let me know if you liked something in the comments (if you like to comment!)  
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/fascination_ex) and [tumblr](https://cardio-vore.tumblr.com/) if you want to scream about fanfic with me!!
> 
> and I will see you  
> next time.  
> :)


	13. Chapter 13

Knock Out woke up on the couch with her face in Starscream’s belly, listening to the sounds of someone clattering at the door. There was cold, early daylight suffusing the room around the cracks between the curtains. 

She inhaled and thought, _my mouth tastes like decay_. Then the smell of Starscream’s skin hit her, and despite her queasy stomach and the unpleasant dizziness in her skull, she relaxed into it. It felt like a curiously long time since she’d just been able to curl into someone and feel their skin.

_If I am fantasising about cuddling with **Starscream** then I really must be desperate._

The sounds of the door opening registered distantly: keys, a soft thump, the protesting creak of a hinge, a footstep. 

At first Knock Out just assumed it was Pharma leaving for work, or for whatever it was she did in the mornings, and burrowed a little closer into Starscream who grunted unhappily in her sleep. 

She lost track of time for a moment (which may actually have been more like several dozing minutes), right until a familiar but unwelcome voice said, “Excuse me, Doctor,” very loudly. 

She jolted. “Wha—”

“Fuck _off_ , Skywarp,” growled Starscream sleepily, and then she shoved Knock Out’s face off her with one hand. 

Knock Out yelped and scrambled blindly away, scrunching her eyes shut so she didn’t lose one to sudden contact with Starscream’s fingers. “My _face_!” she screeched. 

“…Knock Out?” said Starscream warily, a moment later. 

Knock Out could still feel the sting of her hand when she opened her eyes again. She blinked widely and did not even acknowledge the housekeeper-cook, Steve, who had woken them. She touched her face gingerly, seeking out any tender spots. 

“If you have _scratched my face_ ,” she said in a tone of dire warning to Starscream.

“I hardly touched you,” lied Starscream, looking cagey. 

Knock Out scrambled off the couch then, ignoring Starscream’s curse when she jammed a knee into her shin. She went to find a mirror immediately. 

Very distantly she registered the clink of Steve collecting a third bottle into their rubbish bag and winced. How much had they had? 

She was a little hung over, but Knock Out usually found herself blessed with easy mornings-after—or, well, she had until thirty five, anyway, ehem. So even today’s queasy stomach and tender head were telling. 

The big mirror out in the hall, set on a cream wall in its ornate bronze frame, revealed that Starscream certainly had touched her. The only result of any note was a thin, red line across her cheekbone. It had not quite broken the skin. It would probably fade within a few hours. 

She touched it gently. Her fingers smelled like old wine, and her stomach lurched along with her too-fast heart beat. 

Fine, she decided, after a long and critical look. She supposed she and Starscream could continue their association, after all. 

Behind her, somewhere outside of the reflection range of the mirror, Steve said, “Doctor? I need to speak with you about the menu.”

Steve did not seem to find the sight of Knock Out peering intently at her own face in the mirror at all off-putting, as far as conversation went. 

“The menu?” Knock Out repeated, turning away from her reflection finally and looking back to Steve. They were tall, willowy, and dressed head to toe in purple, but their face was nondescript and Knock Out couldn’t have told you what colour their eyes even were. From the context cues alone, Knock Out had never figured out what Steve’s gender actually was and at this point it was too embarrassing to ask. 

“Going into summer, Pharma usually specifies the changes she wants, especially over the holidays. She hasn’t left any information.”

“And she’s usually so conscientious,” drawled Knock Out, in the last split second before the previous night’s events caught up with her.

It was a lightning strike. Her heart stopped. Knock Out froze, suddenly remembering that Pharma was not merely relaxing her stranglehold on household operations or out at work. She was—she—

She had _brained her_ with an ugly sculpture and then _tossed her over a cliff_. She—

Numbly, she said, “Can we continue as we’ve been going for this week? I’m sure Pharma will provide more details soon. I’ll remind her,” she added, feeling asinine. 

Steve, bless them, only nodded. Given the size of the house and the burden of being its sole caretaker and cook, they presumably had bigger concerns than the largely-unfamiliar wife of their employer acting a little odd. She shook her head, feeling her dark red curls slide over one shoulder. 

“Thank you, Steve,” she said, less as thanks and more as a polite way to end that conversation. 

She went back to Starscream, who was now sitting on the coffee table and scrolling through something on her phone. She’d unplugged the sound system to charge it. 

“How about Monday for an appointment,” she said, not looking up. 

“Appointment?”

“My lips,” Starscream reminded her.

Ah, yes. Knock Out frowned, mentally reviewing the day. “Booked up.”

Starscream raised one eyebrow. “Really.”

There was a long pause. 

“…I could slot you in after six,” said Knock Out, through her teeth. Her rooms closed at five, of course. 

Starscream flashed her a smile, all predatory white teeth in her dark face. “That sounds wonderful.” 

* * *

Eventually—very eventually, well into the afternoon—Starscream left. And then Knock Out was alone for the night.

She went up to her room and smelled nothing but Pharma. The dim bedroom with its soft carpet, huge bed and luxurious sheets seethed with the smell of her skin, her hair, her soap and shampoo and clothes. Knock Out turned on her heel and went back down to the lounge room, where she proceeded to drink until she blacked out entirely.

The day after was horrible. 

Knock Out spent more time than was probably wise obsessing about Pharma’s body—about what might happen when someone found it, or if they already had and she just didn’t know about it yet, and about when and how she should start acting concerned by Pharma’s continued absence. 

She went up to the study, her footsteps echoing loudly on the stairs in the huge, empty house. The room was uniquely Pharma’s, bare-looking without its rug. She touched the spines of all the books and sat in her chair, listening to the leather sigh around her and smelling the familiar and evocative scent of Pharma’s hair rising up from it. 

Knock Out felt like her whole life had turned into something absolutely surreal in one night. She was a Dali painting, a melting clock slumped over a tree branch. 

She couldn’t trust reality, and felt like her understanding of the physical world was melting, dripping out of her skull through her ears every time she put something new in place: carefully editing the camera footage from her driveway, just in case someone wanted to see the records, so it showed Starscream coming and going, but not Pharma’s car; sending messages to Pharma’s phone that were never going to be answered. 

She texted First Aid—the assistant—to ask if she knew where Pharma was, if there was a conference or international meeting Knock Out had missed. She got an apologetic negative. First Aid had left the office before Pharma, who was always the last one in there anyway. 

That was good to know, Knock Out supposed, staring at her phone screen. 

She stared at it for a little longer, breathing in the lingering scents and touches of Pharma’s presence in the study. Eventually, the screen went dim, and then dark, and then she dropped the phone back onto the desk. 

_Is that my hand_ , she thought vaguely, peering at her fingers. They were pale, still, steady. She flexed them. They moved. She guessed it was hers, after all.

She considered sending the third cousin a message. 

She looked her up on social media and discovered, upon seeing her photo, that she actually knew the woman—Knock Out had heard Ratchet speak on some obscure facet of emergency medicine at a conference once, when she was just starting out in her residency. She only half-remembered the contents, but the theatre had been full past capacity, standing room only. 

Funny, she’d never even noticed when Pharma had been alive. 

She typed out several different messages, but even when she had it all laid out in the message field, she never sent it. 

Knock Out slept restlessly and at the completely wrong times of day, and drank a lot, and spoke to nobody at all because Starscream was, as it turned out, really her only friend. 

Worse, somehow, were the moments when she forgot completely: sleepy seconds after an ill-advised seven pm nap; a moment while washing her hair on Saturday evening; a long stretch while she read a new article on the impact of exposure to blue light from electronic devices on chloasma faciei. 

After each moment’s peace, the gut-clenching anxiety came back five-fold, haunting and irrepressible and overwhelming. The feeling wouldn’t let her be.

It was getting late on Sunday evening when at last there came a buzz from the gate. Knock Out toed her work shoes on at the door and checked the camera, and, seeing that it was a police car, knew immediately that Pharma had been found. 

It had taken days. She wasn’t sure if that was too much time or too little. 

The woman who came to the door was extremely… policely: she was of average height, dense and wiry in build, and wearing a pristine uniform with a service cap. It was twelve minutes to ten, and she looked as sharp-eyed and well-pressed as if she’d just arrived at work. Her spine was straight, her shoulders square, her eyes focused. She was at least Knock Out’s age—older, probably.

Knock Out felt a wash of exhaustion at the sight of her. 

“Doctor Knock Out?” 

“That’s me.” She leaned heavily on the door jamb. Her heart beat came rapidly.

“Inspector Prowl,” she said. She pulled off her hat and revealed a shock of short, ash blond hair cut close to her head. It had not suffered from being trapped under the hat. “May I come in to speak with you, Doctor?”

Knock Out looked at her blue eyes, flat and shallow like pretty glass. For a moment she wondered what would happen if she just said no, Prowl couldn’t come in. 

Then she just felt tired and anxious and horrible all over again. 

“Of course.” Knock Out held the door for the woman and stepped back to let her in.

“Take a seat,” she found herself saying numbly, gesturing her toward the parlour.

It was strange, how automatic everything was: Knock Out had her sit in the parlour and returned with coffee. She politely did not drop a shot of liquor in hers, although she certainly could have done with it. 

Prowl rested her hat on the lounge beside her and took one sip of her coffee (black, no sugar), and then put her cup back down again. 

“I’m here to notify you that your wife, Pharma, is dead.” There were no euphemisms, no awkward preambles. Knock Out barely remembered how she’d approached death notifications, back when she had actually needed to make them, but she didn’t think she’d been very good at them. She was always more concerned by how awkward and uncomfortable it was than she was with the impact it had on the deceased’s family. Prowl was rock steady. 

She waited for Knock Out to respond, and Knock Out just wrapped her hands around her coffee cup and nodded. 

After a moment, she went on: “At the moment, it looks as though she had an accident while driving. I’m very sorry to be informing you of your loss.”

‘An accident while driving,’ Knock Out mouthed voicelessly. She swallowed. She wondered if Prowl thought she was acting suspiciously or strangely. She wondered what would happen if they investigated. She nodded. 

It was impossible to tell from her composed face if she was, in fact, sorry, but Knock Out rather thought she must have been. It was a rotten job. 

There was a long silence. Knock Out put her cup down. She wasn’t sure what to say. 

“She hasn’t been home,” she said, inanely.

She wondered if she sounded half as numb and strange as she felt. 

“What do I need to do?” Knock Out said it, and her voice rose horribly on the last word, and then she shocked herself by tearing up, sharply and suddenly. “Sorry,” she said, blinking rapidly to try to stop her eyes welling over. Her voice wobbled. It sounded, inexplicably, quite raw.

It didn’t do her any good. She ducked her head and squeezed her eyes shut hard. She could feel the hot fluid trail of tears running right down her face. _Stop crying_ , she thought fiercely, _you killed her yourself!_

When she blinked her eyes open again, she could see—blurrily—that Prowl didn’t seem affected by her sudden crying. 

“A lot of people,” said Prowl carefully, “already have a suspicion, when a—a loved one—doesn’t come home.”

“Sometimes she doesn’t,” Knock Out said miserably. 

She didn’t even have to fake it. She was miserable. For _herself_ , mostly. But there was a dull, nascent resentment brewing in her, too. How dare Pharma inflict this on her? 

“Sometimes she goes… on flights for business, or to a conference. She doesn’t always tell me. But she usually texts me back.”

Prowl nodded. After a moment, she went on: “We’ll need you to come in and identify the body. She did have her identification on her, so it’s just a formality.”

Going down to the morgue to see Pharma was the last thing Knock Out wanted to do. She’d already seen Pharma’s dead body. “Why do you need me to identify her if you already know?”

Prowl’s brow furrowed. “It’s a legal requirement under the Coroners Act. And,” she paused for a moment. “And usually the family… prefers to view the body.”

Oh. Knock Out nodded.

“I must look like the wrath of god,” she muttered, and rubbed the skin under her eyes with her thumbs. But no amount of rubbing would change the act that her mascara was not waterproof. She could picture her own face in her mind’s eye, cut through with ugly streaks of black. She breathed out, hard and shaky, and felt her lip wobble again. 

_Stop it_ , she castigated herself again. 

When she moved her hands, Prowl still looked serious and composed, if a little uptight. She was watching Knock Out with her flat blue eyes. They seemed very intent.

“Do you know what kind of accident?” Knock Out asked abruptly, in an effort to redirect all that attention. 

“So far, she seems to have driven off the cliff. The interim report indicates that she might have been drinking. Her car was an older model—a classic car of some kind—” Here, Knock Out nodded. Not a cheap car, that. “—it had no air bags. The damage to her head was extensive.”

Knock Out kept nodding. “Okay,” she said. "Okay." 

At length, Knock Out cleaned her face up and Prowl escorted her to the morgue. She offered to drive her, but Knock Out refused. She didn’t want to get into a police car _just_ yet, no matter how shaky and strangely detached she felt. Driving was automatic enough, and luckily it was quite late by the time they went. On a Sunday night, there were few cars on the road for Knock Out to pay attention to. 

Knock Out knew what to expect, intellectually. It had been a couple of days, and that inevitably meant that there would be… stark physical differences in the body. She knew it intellectually, but she’d never actually encountered a body in that state.

There were no mysteries of the human body that really had the capacity to shock and upset Knock Out anymore, but she wasn’t certain she was ready for the first time she encountered true, full-body putrefaction to be her own wife. 

Ready or not, though, it seemed this was what she was getting. 

She followed Inspector Prowl’s tail lights in silence, while the street lights flickered across her face in evenly spaced flashes. 

The city morgue was housed in a squat, mid-century building right on the grounds of a major public hospital. The pathology lab, Knock Out remembered distantly, was also in the same ugly blonde-brick structure. The lights were shockingly bright when she stepped inside after the nocturnal darkness of the car park. She blinked widely, looking around in something of a daze. 

The inside was just as Knock Out recalled from her long-ago student rotation: a heavily air-conditioned, halogen-lit, linoleum nightmare. 

“To the left, Doctor.” 

Left they went. Prowl followed Knock Out through the door. 

The inside was even colder, an inevitability given the negative temperature storage going on there.

The mortuary technician—nowhere near as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as Inspector Prowl at this time of night—must have had news of their coming, because she was ready with the body in what certainly felt like no time at all.

Knock Out looked at it. Later, she wouldn’t remember clearly what she was looking at, only bits and pieces, flashes of memory rising up through a haze of blind stress. 

There was swelling, as she had to expect. Discolouration, too, and pale skin with an ugly sheen, sitting strangely loose on the body, which was beginning to bloat. It didn’t matter how cold the morgue was if the body had been in a wrecked car on a beach for days. 

Knock Out had really made a mess of her head. And the header off the cliff certainly hadn’t helped.

It—she—smelled less than Knock Out might have expected, but then, it was cold storage, wasn’t it?

Her hair was a mess, which Pharma’s never was. But it was the same blonde hair, well cared-for. 

“Doctor,” prompted Prowl, passing her a clip-board, one with a pen attached by a little string. In the sterile and icy environment it seemed curiously old-fashioned. 

Knock Out signed the identification forms without even looking at them.

“Thank you,” said the mortuary technician. Knock Out hummed.

“If you would like to spend some time with the body—”

“Not really,” said Knock Out flatly. 

“That’s all we need then,” said Prowl, unperturbed. “I’ll ensure her things are given back to you after the inquest.”

“Yes. Good. Can’t forget her things,” said Knock Out, not looking over at the police officer at all.

When they got out, Prowl didn’t bother to ask if she was okay, which Knock Out could at least appreciate.

“Is there somebody I can call for you?” she asked instead, which Knock Out appreciated a whole lot less. “A parent? A friend?”

Knock Out shook her head. “I can take care of myself, Inspector.”

This was evidently not the response Prowl wanted, but she didn’t press the issue.

Knock Out got back in her car and drove home alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is much longer than I wanted but it's here! Knock Out is so _toweringly selfish_ , I love writing her a lot... but hey, even someone as vastly selfish as Knock Out would find this situation extremely stressful.
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment and me know if there was something you liked, or if you have any questions or anything.


	14. Chapter 14

Monday was sort of a wash, in that Knock Out barely remembered any of it. She was careful about her patient notes, but she was sure that, whatever her bedside manner usually was—charming, almost certainly; comforting, unlikely—it was much worse that day. She found herself over-correcting for how fuzzy she felt, pausing to second guess and double check at odd moments during consultations.

Despite what she’d told Starscream, it was a relatively light day, and it did seem most of her patients were cooperating: on time, not springing any new or unexpected complications on her, not calling up crying that they were having mild side effects about which they’d already been warned…

“You look terrible,” Starscream said when she let herself in at a quarter to six. She didn’t sound especially sympathetic. Knock Out didn’t reflect for too long on the fact that the building ought to have required a pass after hours—both at the front doors and for the elevator to this level.

It was hard to figure out how a woman in a bright red jacket and a pile of glittery jewellery could be stealthy, but Starscream usually managed it. Today she was, supposedly, wearing no makeup, although if her eyelashes actually looked like that then Knock Out would be _very_ surprised. 

Magnanimously, she ignored the slight. She’d had a late and tricky night and was entitled to looking a little rough—not that she _did_. Her makeup was absolutely flawless, and she’d been careful to touch it up during the day when she could. 

“Starscream.” She turned and smiled semi-sincerely at her. “Good, you’re early.” More for effect than because she immediately needed them, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves. “Ready for your… upgrade?” 

Something about the way Starscream shifted nervously on her feet—in Pharma’s shoes, Knock Out noticed—made her feel materially more secure about this whole situation. 

Starscream eyed the examination chair with its crisp, new paper covering, looking at it like it might bite. At length, she unclenched her jewel spangled fists and approached it. 

“Very well,” she sniffed. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Doctor.” 

“Don’t worry about a thing,” said Knock Out, smiling pleasantly. Latex snapped into place. “It’s bound to hurt less in hindsight.”

Starscream glowered powerfully at her from her seat in the chair, but Knock Out only felt smug about it for a second or two. Ultimately, Starscream was doing a poor job at covering her anxiety and Knock Out only really enjoyed provoking her when there was actually some challenge in it. 

“Don’t look so worried,” she relented. “We can do it under a local, if you like.”

Starscream’s glower turned distinctly wary and untrusting. “I prefer to _know_ what’s being done to my face, thanks.”

“That’s fine. But it means you have to stop pouting and relax for me.”

“I’m not _pouting_. I don’t pout,” Starscream pouted.

But, grudgingly, she allowed her expression to smooth over, which Knock Out supposed was her cue. 

The procedure itself was fast and minimally invasive, and Knock Out only kept Starscream for a short time afterwards to be certain nothing would go wrong. Allergies to modern dermal fillers were pretty uncommon, but it didn’t hurt to keep her there while Knock Out did her own paperwork.

Her professional indemnity insurance was due soon, it seemed… She felt like it had only been five minutes since she’d last paid it. 

“All right,” she said eventually, wheeling around on her chair. “Like we discussed: no strenuous exercise, smoking, flying, alcohol, blood thinners, steam rooms or saunas for two days at least. There will be swelling, and maybe some bruising. You can ice it to help with that. Do you have any questions?”

“Really no alcohol?” Starscream said, squinting at Knock Out as though she suspected her of making it up. “None at all?”

“It’s only two days,” Knock Out reminded her gently. “I’m sure you can make it _two days_.” Never mind if Knock Out thought _she_ couldn’t. 

“You don’t live with Skywarp,” muttered Starscream. She leaned down to collect her bag and jacket from the other chair. Since Starscream had six or seven homes, it was by no means mandatory for her to live with her younger sister, but that never seemed to enter into her calculations on the topic. 

“You’ll make the swelling and bruising worse,” Knock Out elaborated. 

Starscream grunted. 

Knock Out finished her additions to Starscream’s deliberately sparse notes, and then escorted her out to the deserted reception area. The walls were a soft baby blue, and the furniture was white; it was supposed to be light and friendly, but it just made Knock Out subtly cold.

“Don’t you usually have a little minion who does all—” Starscream flicked her fingers at the reception area, “—this?”

“Mmm. He does for all the practitioners on the floor, but he finishes at five thirty.” Knock Out swiped her own card. Paying for her patients’ medical procedures—which she then performed herself—wasn’t exactly ethical unassailable, from the medical board’s perspective. But she wasn’t going to steal dermal fillers, either, and they didn’t grow on trees. 

“Alright, that’s it,” she said, straightening and putting the computer into sleep mode once more. 

It was a quick walk to escort Starscream out of the building, and then a car with heavily tinted windows rolled up to collect her the moment she stepped out onto the bitumen in her stolen shoes. 

Starscream wiggled her fingers ‘goodbye’ at Knock Out as she climbed into the back leather of the back seat. 

* * *

Of course, on Tuesday morning, Knock Out was subjected to a call from Starscream before she’d even made it out of her car. 

“I look like someone hit me in the mouth with a brick!” she howled, hitting a pitch of which, somewhere, a yodeller was probably very envious.

Knock Out, with the car door open and the engine still running, yanked the phone away from her ear so fast she lost hold of it, and it was flung back into the car while her ear was still ringing. It went clattering into the foot well on the passenger side. 

Knock Out blew out a sharp breath, sending a spill of red hair fluttering from around her eyes. She leaned over the gear shift and fumbled for it, but she didn’t need to be any closer to the speaker to hear Starscream’s impressive voice. 

This was why she didn’t give her mobile phone number out to random patients, she supposed. 

“I told you, there’s often some swelling or bruising,” she said, when she fished her phone back out. “Any severe pain, or numbness?”

“You didn’t say I’d look like I went _three rounds with a tractor_ , on my _face_.”

So that was a ‘no’. Knock Out rolled her eyes. She grabbed her bag and her keys, got out, and rocked her hip into the car door to close it, now that her hands were all full. “It takes a day or two to recover. Listen, if you’re having any of those serious side effects we spoke about—”

Starscream made a noise like a teakettle boiling over and hung up. 

Knock Out eyed her phone, but it didn’t have anything else to reveal. 

Feeling very conscientious as she did, Knock Out forwarded Starscream a reminder list of symptoms that meant serious complications might be occurring, and then put away the phone. She went up to work feeling that if Starscream didn’t even want to bother talking about the problem she could deal with it herself. 

She forgot all about it for a few hours, first because she was busy explaining to a mortified teenager’s father that acne was not caused by ‘slovenliness’, ‘gluttony’ or some kind of nonspecific but scary ‘sin’, and then because she’d wasted so much time on him that she was already behind schedule. 

By the time Knock Out actually paused to check her phone again she had two new, equally uninformative messages, which read: ‘I hate you’, and ‘you’re fired.’

She felt a brief pang of anxiety about that very bloodied rug Starscream was undoubtedly keeping tucked away in the dark and the dust somewhere with the rest of her sins—but actually using that as evidence would be a phyrric, bridge-burning victory at best. 

At length, she sent back: ‘A statement that would hold more weight had you actually paid me.’ 

Starscream, who was still evidently sulking about the very-much-expected recovery period of the minor procedure she’d elected to have done and manipulated Knock Out into completing, did not reply.

Going home at the end of the day to her house felt odd and excessive somehow. It had always been excessive, realistically: it had five bedrooms, two studies, three bathrooms, a lounge, a parlour, a dining room, two kitchens, a basement, a sprawling foyer, a garage fit for ten or twelve vehicles, extensive gardens and a multitude of decorated halls and corridors; these things hadn’t suddenly appeared after Pharma’s death. It had _always_ been sort of absurd. 

When Pharma had been there, it had seemed a natural fit for her. Knock Out had felt like an extension of that. Now, it seemed ridiculous. Pharma had been born right into the kind of wealth that didn’t blink at owning multiple such homes—but Knock Out had not. She’d ‘married up’, instead.

Perhaps she would move, after all this was settled, she thought idly as she kicked her shoes off in the doorway and headed inside. The marble floor was a balm to her aching feet after a long day. 

She took her makeup off and showered, and she took her time with it. When she was done, she smelled like something heady and faintly floral, and her skin was smooth and soft even to her own touch. 

The mirror covered the wall above the sinks and their gleaming taps in the enormous bathroom. She stopped to admire herself. Sometimes it was nice to be alone, and still to be staggeringly beautiful. Being alone was hardly the worst thing in the world: nobody else to think about, nobody to please but herself… 

Knock Out admired herself for a few long minutes. She ran her hands through her hair, scratching luxuriously at her scalp, and watched it fall back down, tumbling in soft bloody-red waves and careless curls down to spill over her shoulders. 

Mmm. Even without the makeup and the structured bras and the high heels, she really was very beautiful, wasn’t she? She smiled. Her lips were full and curved and smiling looked good on her, too. 

Knock Out’s evening was dedicated to documentation. At only forty, Pharma hadn’t had many plans for the disposal of her estate in the event of her death. But there were some records Knock Out would need to have on hand anyway: bank statements, brokerage and stock certificates, a mountain of confusing records regarding the company, which Pharma had owned wholly and privately. There were property deeds—sometimes to things Knock Out didn’t even know about, like one to a farm house in the country hundreds of miles away.

She knew she’d have to apply to the probate court to be confirmed as the estate’s administrator in the absence of a last will and testament. But there would also be funeral arrangements and expenses, and she’d have to ensure she sorted out any outstanding debts… 

She would need a solicitor, and possibly also an accountant. Pharma must have used some kind of law firm for the company, surely—would it be sensible to simply ask First Aid to find out? Was there a conflict of interests? 

Knock Out would have to notify First Aid, probably, at least by way of notifying the company’s staff. There weren’t that many at head office, but there were manufacturers and reps all over. There’d be hundreds of people there affected, however peripherally, by Pharma’s death. Maybe she’d have to tell her cousin, too—Doctor Ratchet, the emergency medicine doctor. 

She felt a little bit overwhelmed by the quantity of work ahead of her. 

Since there was no way she was going to sleep in that huge, empty bed that still smelled like Pharma, Knock Out brought a blanket and all the paperwork down to the lounge room with all her papers to sort through. She barely noticed the passing of time, and at some late hour she simply kicked her feet up on the couch, threw the blanket over her head and went right to sleep. 

The buzz of someone ringing at the gates woke her. For a confused moment, Knock Out didn’t know where she was and thought that Pharma had mislaid her key. 

Then everything came rushing forward again. Her belly swooped and her heart raced and her chest tightened at the memories of the murder, of sending the car over the cliff, of the decomposing thing in cold storage in the city morgue.

For a moment of blind panic she was certain the buzzing was Inspector Prowl again, come to question her on some suspect aspect of the death. 

It took her almost thirty whole seconds to calm her furious heart, and then she scrambled up from the couch to find out who was actually at the gate. 

The familiar _MOTORMASTER’S_ truck was a relief. Her shoulders dropped from where they’d been held high and tight, and she leaned her forehead against the wall to let it take some of her weight. She held the ‘talk’ button down. 

“Hello?” she said to the intercom, trying not to sound too annoyed with the driver for _giving her a heart attack_. 

“Good morning, sorry if I woke you up. I have a delivery, a sculpture for, uh—”

“Pharma,” Knock Out finished. She released the gates and cleared the sleep from her voice with a tiny cough. “Come up, then.”

She did not have quite enough time to find proper clothing—certainly not to put on any makeup—but she decided leaving the delivery woman waiting had to be the lesser evil and sprinted up the stairs for a pair of black jeans, a shirt, and, importantly, a bra. 

She threw open the door just as the woman outside was raising her hand to knock once again. 

There was a short pause. 

It was the same delivery woman as last time. Knock Out found that, unusually enough, she remembered her name. 

They stared at each other. 

Somewhere deeper in the house, the clock chimed a low, soft chime. 

Knock Out was stone cold sober now, and the first thought that made it into the ringing white emptiness of her mind was still, somehow: _Her hands are big... I bet she could put her hands on my waist and they’d touch around the middle._

“Hi,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Breakdown?”

Slowly, Breakdown lowered her hand. 

She had freckles, Knock Out realised, now that she wasn’t looking at her face through a haze of bloody marys. Her skin was dark enough that they didn’t stand out very much, but they were scattered across the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones, fading out into the delicate skin under her eyes, which were dark brown, big and melting-warm. 

Oh... hell, thought Knock Out. 

“I—wow, yeah. Yeah. Doctor Knock Out,” said Breakdown, and Knock Out did so love to know she’d been remembered. She felt her mouth curl up into a smile without any input from her brain. 

“Um, hi,” Breakdown added. 

She was looking intently at Knock Out’s face, just as Knock Out hadn’t been able to pull her eyes from hers. But she was probably _not_ checking out her cute freckles, because of course Knock Out did not have cute freckles. 

She touched her own face. “I’m—I’m not wearing make up,” she blurted. 

Breakdown’s face did something complicated. “What?” 

There was a short pause between them. Knock Out’s heart thumped in the cage of her ribs. 

“Do you want to come in?” Knock Out asked. Her voice came out oddly high, a little breathy.

“Yes,” said Breakdown. “Yes.” And then she took one step forward, swaying into Knock Out’s space for a moment in which she could smell detergents and deodorant, both totally unfamiliar. 

“Um,” said Breakdown. She stopped like she’d just remembered. “I should,” she did not look away from Knock Out’s face, her eyes fixed, but she waved vaguely over her shoulder, “get your… thing?”

“What thing?” Knock Out opened her mouth before her brain had really interpreted that sentence. “Oh. That. Yes,” she added. 

Breakdown bit her lower lip. Knock Out _watched_. When she opened her mouth to speak again, her teeth had left a tiny indent in her lip, which filled in almost immediately, just a shade darker than before. “I’ll just—I’ll be right back.”

“Uh-huh,” said Knock Out. _Oh, I’m an idiot_ , she thought. The thought didn't seem to concern her much, drifting past her brain while she contended with the sudden, completely new kind of fluttery nervousness in her belly. 

Then Breakdown turned away from the door and back to the truck idling on the gravel, and Knock Out tilted her head a little and watched that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knock Out: want to come in?  
> Breakdown: YES.  
> Breakdown: wait... get. thing?  
> Knock Out: what thing?  
> Breakdown: delivery... the thing?  
> Knock Out: okay??? okay, whatever makes you happy.
> 
> I have apparently elected to represent the romance of Knock Out and Breakdown by making them absolute fucking morons for each other. When they meet you have to add up their collective IQ and then reduce it by 66%. 
> 
> Anyway! If you liked anything about this chapter please feel free to let me know in a comment. If not, have a good night!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme of this chapter is just like, "Knock Out's guilt and anxiety v Knock Out's horniness and loneliness: fight."

Knock Out stood in the doorway and watched in silence while Breakdown unloaded a box that was thankfully smaller than the last ugly sculpture Pharma had had delivered. She balanced the paperwork on the top of the box and brought it back to the door. Knock Out stepped back to let her in. 

“I don’t know what this one is, but it’s pretty heavy,” Breakdown said as she passed from the sunlight outside to the cool shade of the house. Her shoes tapped loudly on the marble in counterpoint to the softer sound of Knock Out's bare feet. “Do you want to open it and let me know where you want it to go?”

Knock Out eyed the way the muscles in Breakdown’s forearms were tensed while she carried the thing. It did look pretty heavy. 

“Uh-huh,” she said.

She set the box on the huge, round marble-topped table that stood in the foyer, where Knock Out sometimes had a giant vase of flowers when she could be bothered. The last arrangement had been many months ago now, and Steve had thrown away the flowers and put the vase away… somewhere… when they’d started to droop. 

When they cut the box and unpackaged it, the sculpture was an iron model of three fighter jets connected at the underside to three ravens, speared by one long sword. 

Knock Out sighed. “Do you know if there are any more on their way?” 

Breakdown shook her head. Her short hair fluttered as she moved her head. 

Knock Out licked her lips, and she knew at a glance that Breakdown was watching her, too. “That’s okay. Look, um, Pharma is dead.”

Breakdown tore her eyes from her mouth to meet her eyes again. 

“What? How? Oh, I’m so sorry,” she added. Her face wrinkled a little just around her eyes. She looked remarkably sincere, and Knock Out felt a weird twist of guilt for making her feel bad or awkward or whatever it was. She certainly didn’t deserve it. 

“She got drunk and took a header off a cliff,” she said harshly, biting the words out like she’d feel less queasy saying it if she said it faster and meaner. “An ignominious and undignified death for someone as proud as Pharma, but there you have it.”

Breakdown chewed her bottom lip. She hesitated. “Are you… all right?”

Knock Out's stomach flipped. Her thoughts rushed: of course she was all right, but she should clearly pretend not to be. And then, immediately after the first thought, she wondered what it would mean if she _wasn't_ all right. Then: _what a question to even ask._ Outwardly, she rolled her eyes. “This may shock you, but _**I**_ did not take a header over a cliff, so—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Breakdown interrupted, low but steady. She was watching Knock Out intently now, scanning her face for hints of… something. _Guilt_ , Knock Out thought first, immediately, but that didn’t hold up to much critical thinking—that was just her projecting. 

Curiously, her tone and expression just reminded Knock Out of how she’d sounded back when she’d rejected her—like she didn’t enjoy it at all, like she didn’t want to say it, but nevertheless firm and implacable. 

Knock Out twisted her hair around her fingers and returned her gaze to the stupid sculpture, unsettled and restless. The silence lingered for a heart beat. At last she sighed. “No. Of course that wasn’t what you meant,” she relented. “I’ll... recover. Eventually.” And more quickly than she should, probably. 

Breakdown nodded slowly.

In her peripheral vision, Knock Out saw her open her mouth and then hesitate again. There was a pause. Finally, Breakdown said: “I’m really sorry for your loss.”

Knock Out was almost certain that had not been what she’d been about to say. 

“Thank you.” There was another silence, one she felt to be much more awkward.

Breakdown evidently agreed because she swallowed and returned all her attention to the sculpture, too. It wasn’t as ugly as some of them, but it certainly wasn’t a thing with which Knock Out would choose to decorate her home. If Knock Out had been the one to choose, they’d have decorated with more large mirrors in big fancy frames. They opened up rooms, reflected lots of light _and_ ensured she could look at herself whenever she wanted.

She guessed she could buy as many enormous mirrors as she wanted, now. Home décor wasn’t a two person decision anymore.

“Where do you think you want it?” Breakdown asked, peering at the thing with an expression that was trying for polite neutrality and not quite making it.

Knock Out shook her head. She didn’t want this thing at all. 

“Erm… how about up in Pharma’s study? It can sit on the desk. It’ll be in no-one’s way, there.” She eyed it. It wasn’t that big, but it had every appearance of being solid iron. “Are you alright to carry it up the stairs?” 

Expressively, she waved one hand towards them.

Breakdown blinked past her at the broad marble stairway curving up to the next floor. Her mouth twitched at one corner. “Yeah, that’s fine.” She glanced back down at Knock Out. “Lead the way.”

The stairs were evidently not much of a challenge. Knock Out wasn’t convinced of her own ability to even lift the thing, but Breakdown didn’t falter. 

“Just in the middle of the desk,” Knock Out sighed, opening the door and getting out of the way. Watching Breakdown effortlessly move the thing was at least a minor consolation for having to have it at all. 

Knock Out hadn’t known that she was that into the idea of physical strength—Pharma hadn’t been much in that way at all. But she had liked Pharma’s sharp tongue and fast wit, when it wasn’t turned on her. Maybe what she really liked, Knock Out thought, was people who were good at things and comfortable with being good at them. …And, also, the shift of extensors in her arms when she moved the sculpture.

The black iron birds and jets and swords looked just as silly in the middle of Pharma’s study as they did anywhere else, but at least nobody had to use this room. Maybe Knock Out should move all the ‘art’ up here.

“That’s fine,” Knock Out said, paying more attention to Breakdown than to her new ornament.

“Alright.” Breakdown stepped back. Something scraped underfoot, and she frowned and bent down.

Knock Out knew what it would be before she saw it in Breakdown’s hand. A flash of anxiety tugged at her, starting in her guts and echoing out up her spine and through her limbs, cold and sick-feeling.

It was a piece of glass. From the brandy Pharma had been pouring when Knock Out had killed her.

“I’m sorry,” said Knock Out, numbly. “I broke a glass in here a few days ago. I mustn’t have gotten all the pieces. Are you okay?”

She held out a hand. Breakdown gave her the shard, carefully angling the sharp edges away from her skin. It caught the light. 

“I’ll get rid of it.” Her voice sounded even and blank, and seemed to be coming from a long way away. She dumped it into the bin beneath Pharma’s desk. She didn’t even know when anybody would empty that. It didn’t matter.

“I’m fine,” Breakdown said, and then awkwardly added: “but, um, watch where you step—don’t want you to cut yourself.”

“Oh.” Knock Out looked down at her own pale toes. Right. Because Breakdown had woken her up, and she hadn’t gotten shoes. “Yes. Thanks. I should …vacuum?” 

Knock Out did not know if they had a vacuum cleaner, actually. They must have one somewhere, right? She felt sure she’d heard the housekeeper using it sometimes, but it was also true that Steve usually did that sort of thing when everybody was at work.

She led Breakdown back into the corridor, feet making dull soft little noises on the rug that ran down its length. Her heart was beating quickly, although she didn’t know if that was guilt and anxiety or something else entirely. 

_Don’t want you to cut yourself._ She couldn’t remember the last time someone had said something like that to her. It might have been one of her parents, when they were alive. 

Breakdown followed her back down the stairs again, and she fought the rising urge to ask her to stay—for coffee, for a drink, for making out on the couch, for anything really. But, of course, she had already made an idiot of herself doing that once. She didn’t have so little pride she’d try again. 

Besides, she didn’t think it would go over any better when it was so clearly prefaced with ‘oh, well, now that my wife’s dead—’ Hmm. No. Probably not.

Knock Out leaned against the hard edge of the table while Breakdown was finding the right thing for her to sign amid the papers she’d grabbed from the front seat. 

There was no particularly good way to convince her to drop her work and stay to keep Knock Out company, obviously. That was… _needy and crazy_. She wasn’t that lonely, was she? She’d been thinking about how nice it was to be alone just last night… 

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair, brain racing in confused circles. She shook her hair back over her shoulder again and blinked to find Breakdown holding out the paper, still and staring at her like a little baby bird faced with a big cat.

She blinked once, slowly. Took the pen. “Ah, thank you.”

At least she could read the words this time. Score one for occasional sobriety. 

“Is there a funeral?” Breakdown asked abruptly. 

Knock Out fumbled the pen and put a weird dip in her signature. 

“I mean,” Breakdown clarified. “Obviously there’s a funeral. But—do you have—that is, is it open? Can anyone go? Do you have a date set or—”

“Not yet,” Knock Out interrupted her nervous rambling. “I haven’t… that is, the coroner hasn’t released her body yet. But she’d have wanted a big event.”

Pharma would have wanted as many mourners crying and gnashing their teeth and tearing their hair as could be convinced to put on that obscene performance of grief, probably. 

“Anyone would be welcome to pay their respects,” Knock Out said. It was a translation of what she assumed Pharma would have truly wanted that she felt was... _particularly diplomatic._

“I didn’t know Pharma very well,” Breakdown said uncertainly. Her eyebrows knitted. She really did show a lot on her face, the poor thing. 

Knock Out sniffed. “Then come for the open bar.” It was as good an excuse as any. “Give me your number, I’ll let you know when I’ve confirmed it.” 

It would have to be soon, she knew.

“I’d like that.” Breakdown smiled like she had not, in fact, just been invited to a funeral. 

Knock Out knew, even when she was writing down the mobile number, that it was absolutely just a pretext—for both of them. And perhaps it was tacky that she was using her wife’s funeral as an excuse to get the cute delivery woman’s number, but, well, Breakdown was letting her, wasn't she? She dismissed the thought entirely. Shame was overrated. 

“I’ll let you know,” she said again at the door. 

Somehow she managed to let Breakdown go without blurting out any new embarrassing invitations, and then she lingered in the doorway to watch her truck roll up the enormous length of gravelled driveway. It sprayed little white rocks into the grass as it went. Knock Out wondered idly if that annoyed the gardener. 

Yes. She would definitely move after this was all settled. 

Once Breakdown was gone, she went back inside and dug out her phone to save the new contact—and then texted her directly, a quick, _‘Hi, Breakdown, this is Knock Out’s number’_ and nothing else.

Then, before she could waste time worrying about that, she went and looked up First Aid’s phone number again. It was a Wednesday, so she shouldn’t be interrupting regular day off when she called to let Pharma’s assistant know her boss was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Breakdown POV again, and I get to write about Motormaster so I'm pleased. As usual, if there was something you liked about this or you have a question etc., please feel free to let me know in a comment. Have a good morning!


	16. Chapter 16

Knock Out was, somehow, even prettier than Breakdown remembered. Even barefoot and bare-faced (a thing Breakdown had not really noticed until she mentioned it, but she was sure someone like Dead End would have), she was shockingly attractive—all curved and soft-looking and maddeningly good-smelling when she leaned in. 

Breakdown didn’t really know Pharma. She’d met her a few times, and although she obviously wouldn’t have said so to Knock Out, she hadn’t liked her. But when Knock Out said ‘Look, Pharma is dead,’ it was still an awkward and jarring shock. 

Professionally, Breakdown had of course heard that people had died before. She had been hired to clear out the homes of dead people plenty of times. And _every single time_ it was awkward and horrible to navigate that conversation. (Especially if Motormaster didn’t bother to tell her, and she fetched up in her truck just to be confronted by pale, tremulous relatives.)

‘I’m really sorry for your loss’, was the only thing she knew how to say in those situations. It had come out here, too, just as stiff and stilted as usual. 

She was so glad Knock Out hadn’t started crying. She had absolutely know idea what she’d have done if that pretty lower lip had started wobbling. But Knock Out had responded to feeling uncomfortable by being rude, with a deeply sarcastic, “This may shock you, but I did not take a header over a cliff.” 

Being rude was how _all_ Breakdown’s family responded to feeling uncomfortable. Breakdown didn’t know how to handle talking to weepy sad grieving people, but people who were being rude because they had some kind of feeling were just a regular daily thing for her. And Knock Out, it had to be said, hadn’t even gotten really mean about it; she’d reined it in before anything particularly insulting came out. 

There was something nice—other than the comfort of familiarity—in seeing Knock Out respond with a little fire.

Breakdown had taken a deep, deep breath, and tried not to think about how inappropriate it was that she liked this woman so much. 

She’d halfway convinced herself that it had been some dumb failure of her memory: that Knock Out couldn’t have been into her, and that if she had been, she couldn’t have been as attractive and charismatic as Breakdown remembered. 

Knock Out _wasn’t_ exactly as Breakdown remembered.

She was actually worse. By which Breakdown meant that she was confident and kind of sharp around the edges, prettier than Breakdown actually remembered—and somehow even more tempting, and even more of a threat to her mental state. 

And she _did_ like Breakdown, which was the worst (best?) part. When Breakdown came close she kept leaning in, almost unconsciously, just close enough for Breakdown to smell her hair and her skin, all soft and probably-expensive and feminine smells. She held Breakdown’s eyes when they spoke, and then looked determinedly at the stupid statue when she felt awkward. 

Breakdown wasn’t sure if these things were, you know, indicative of _attraction_ , but she knew it meant Knock Out liked her in some way. The very thought made her palms sweat and her heart race. Her stomach did queasy little flutters that made her think that maybe her coffee wasn’t sitting so well.

She knew that while she was at the house, she’d spent a lot of time fixating on the part where Knock Out did like her, and definitely not enough time thinking about how Knock Out was recently widowed and probably really upset and, like, vulnerable. 

Breakdown wasn’t sure what the etiquette situation was on inviting yourself to someone’s funeral in the probably vain hope of picking up their widow but like… it was probably not, you know, not _great_.

She’d just have to be really polite and careful. It wasn’t like there was any indication Knock Out was into her _like that_ —not while she was sober, anyway. She had to keep that in mind, too.

Breakdown had saved Knock Out’s number to her phone the very moment her message had come through, driving with only half her attention on the road while she navigated the new contact menu. She’d sort of been trying not to hope too hard that Knock Out would message her before she’d confirmed anything about the funeral. But she’d not even taken a full fifteen minutes. She must have gone right back inside and done it as soon as Breakdown had cleared the driveway. 

Maybe she was just getting it out of the way. Making sure she didn’t forget, that sort of thing.

She thought about it through the long hours of the rest of her day, which involved couriering six boxes of paper records from the local government offices, dropping off someone’s enormous wooden wardrobe and driving out to the middle of nowhere to pick up a bunch of sand bags that she then had to take down to a gym. 

It was her last stop on account of the long drive, so she didn’t mind staying not just to put them where the instructor wanted them, but also to help her hang a couple of them.

“Nice! Thank you for your help,” said the instructor brightly.

She was wiry and dark-skinned with a shock of short hair, dyed white and striped a deep, artificial red. She was one of those people who projected such an aura of good cheer and goodwill that it was frankly disconcerting. 

“No problem. These are for boxing?” Breakdown asked, mostly to be polite.

“Yep.” She gave one a smack with the flat of her hand, which didn’t budge it even though its chain creaked. Despite her persistent smile, the rest of her body definitely looked like she did indeed hit things for a living. “It’s old fashioned, but it’s how I learnt. I take classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays in the morning and evening, if you ever want to join in.” Her face, if anything, somehow brightened. “We welcome everyone.”

“Um, I’m good, thanks,” Breakdown responded. She felt relieved when the woman just kept smiling and didn’t push. 

Still, Breakdown couldn’t make it out to the car park fast enough.

“I spoke to Doc—er, Pharma’s wife again,” she said at last, when Motormaster called to redirect her to one last pick up for the day. She dropped her phone into the cup holder behind the gear-shift with the speaker at the angled up. 

“Yeah? You fuck her yet?” Motormaster drawled, sounding at best semi-interested.

Breakdown twitched. That hadn’t really been funny the first time she had made the joke—Breakdown expected, but did not really enjoy, jokes to which she was the punch line—and now it seemed both un-funny and kind of mean, given that the doctor’s wife was recently dead… 

“No. I don’t think that’s really what she wants, anyway. Actually, she said Pharma has, uh, died?” 

“She _died_?” Motormaster repeated. 

Breakdown shrugged craning her neck to see as she backed out. “Yeah. Got trolleyed and fell off a cliff or something?” 

That was what she’d gotten from Knock Out, at least, but honestly she’d been much more focused on staring at her mouth.

Motormaster swore. “Do you know how much she pays to get those stupid sculptures on time?”

Breakdown in fact did not know, because Motormaster felt it was irrelevant to tell her staff stuff like that—Breakdown only knew how much something was if she had to collect payment for it herself, which was basically never the case for rich art people. Students moving a book case, sure. Rich art people? No, all that would be organised by Motormaster.

Breakdown debated telling her that Knock Out had invited her to attend that funeral—or, well, at least said it was open to her and that she was welcome, which was maybe a little less than _invited_ , but amounted to the same thing—but then she couldn’t decide. Instead she sat in dumb silence while she drove, listening to Motormaster. 

“We should, fuck, I dunno, write a card or send flowers or something. Something with our phone number on it. She’ll want to get rid of stuff sooner or later… and a woman like that isn’t hauling her own shit to the tip.”

Breakdown frowned. Maybe she should tell her, actually.

“Actually, she did say she would contact us to let us know when the funeral was and stuff,” Breakdown mumbled, before she could change her mind. 

There was a short pause. 

“Contact you, you mean,” Motormaster said, which was… an extremely good guess. Somehow it didn’t even sound like a question. 

Breakdown licked her teeth. “Well, yeah. But it’s still good, right?”

“And I suppose you gave her the business number and email so she could contact the business.” 

“Uh. No?”

Actually, Breakdown hadn’t even thought of giving Knock Out the business’s number, and nothing about the way Knock Out had asked seemed to really suggest that was what she’d wanted, either. But now she was beginning to second guess. What if Knock Out _had_ wanted—but no. ‘Hi Breakdown,’ her text had said. It had definitely been for Breakdown. 

“Listen, I don’t care if you’re picking up while you’re working as long as you’re still doing your actual job,” Motormaster said grumpily, “but don’t try to pass it off to me as good business.”

“I’m not _picking up_ ,” Breakdown protested, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She _wished_ she was picking up. Extensive experience told her that wishing to pick up and actually doing so were quite different things, actually, and she felt firmly rooted in reality on this one. But Motormaster was a good judge of people—of a lot of stuff, actually. Breakdown paused. Swallowed. “But, um, do you think—” 

She wanted to finish with ‘she’s into me’, but it felt so unlikely, and so ridiculous, that she wondered if Motormaster would, uh, just laugh at her. She immediately regretted even starting the question.

“Breakdown,” said Motormaster, in a tone that made Breakdown flinch even though she knew her cousin was miles away and could not, in fact, reach through the phone to smack her. “Firstly, you are an incredible fucking moron.” 

“I—yes,” said Breakdown weakly.

“Great. Good to know we’re on the same page. Secondly, you can have that conversation with _anyone_ else.”

…Apparently she didn’t need to actually say it for Motormaster to deliver the same mortifying experience. 

“Right,” she mumbled, even though _Motormaster_ had been the one cracking stupid jokes about it. 

They hung up shortly after, before Breakdown made that final delivery and drove back home. 

Dead End was at the table in the main room, and it was easy to tell why—the whole room stank of a combination of acetone and polish. When she wasn’t filming, Dead End often used the main room just for the air flow.

“Hey,” said Breakdown, kicking the door closed with a thunderous bang behind her. She tossed her keys down upon the cluttered central table, and leaned in for a perfunctory kiss to Dead End's cheek, which she returned absently. “How was your day?”

“Mm. Not dead yet,” grunted Dead End, without even looking up from her hand. When Breakdown glanced at it she saw that she was making polka dots on a gradient that spanned her thumb nail. It looked… Breakdown didn’t know. Pretty, she guessed. She opened her mouth to tell her so.

“Apparently you’re being a dumbshit about some girl,” Dead End said idly.

Breakdown immediately rethought complimenting whatever she was doing. Instead, she heaved an enormous sigh. She should have known. There were no secrets among family—or at least, not Breakdown’s.

“Don’t make that face,” Dead End instructed, without looking. “What’s her social media handle?”

Breakdown shook her head. “I’ve got no idea.”

“Are you serious?” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Fine, what’s her name? If you don’t say I’ll just ask Motormaster,” she added, rather brattily. 

Breakdown remembered wistfully the time when Motormaster had thought Knock Out’s name was actually ‘Knockers’, and would not have been able to tell her little sister at all. No chance of that now. 

Grudgingly, Breakdown told her. The less potential to revisit that conversation with Motormaster, the better. 

“Uh-huh… Soo… national college of dermatology, a cosmetic procedures… she must be rich, hey… this one?” Dead End spun her phone around, flashing the screen at Breakdown. “ _This_ woman?”

Without really meaning to, Breakdown leaned in toward the screen, like a puppet drawn forward on a string toward the little redheaded image.

Dead End had easily located Knock Out’s social media profiles, of course. They were all last updated at least a month ago, and the profile pictures she swiped through from app to app didn’t look new—in one of them she must have been, hell, under thirty, no older than Breakdown was now, for sure. She’d done exactly what everyone did when they made a social media account, and used a picture that made her look better than she did in real life. 

“Uh, yeah,” said Breakdown, tearing her eyes away. In the younger pictures looked a little skinnier. She was already not very tall, so the overall smallness made her look particularly dainty, and maybe a little fragile.

“Does she actually look like this?” Dead End demanded. 

“Bit, um, thicker, I guess,” said Breakdown. At some point in the last decade—her date of birth right there in the bio said she was pushing _forty_ , which was news to Breakdown—Knock Out must have put on a little weight, because compared to that photo she was all boobs and hips, and Breakdown had a _very clear memory_ of watching her ascend that big stone staircase and trying not to trip over her own feet.

“Oh,” said Dead End. There was a short pause. “Well, she’s still _miles_ out of your league.”

“Thanks.” Breakdown rolled her eyes, and then she set about making something to eat, not especially open to giving Dead End’s colour commentary her undivided attention. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a Breakdown chapter: it's full of mean relatives, confused navel-gazing, objectifying pretty women and a minute Drift cameo
> 
> I'm not convinced this is an amazing update but the last fortnight has been a whole time, so I'm just glad to have gotten something written, haha. if you liked something feel free to let me know in a comment! I hope we will finish up this fic in a chapter or two but you never really know I guess


	17. Chapter 17

Planning a funeral turned out to be exceptionally straightforward—much more so than the legal details around the disposal of Pharma’s property. 

This was the case largely because unlike the minute details of their property and finances, the funeral could be entrusted nearly wholesale to someone Knock Out hired for the task. Pharma, not being of an age to have considered her death overmuch, had no particular stated wishes. She was not religious. She had not, to Knock Out’s knowledge, a particular favourite song or poem or… 

In the interests of serving Pharma to the fullest extent of what she presumed her wishes to be, and incidentally washing her own hands of it with very little trouble, Knock Out simply engaged a professional service to take care of every possible detail and ensure the whole business ran smoothly. They charged about as much as a cheap, but new, car. Knock Out viewed it as money well spent, and left the matter in their practised hands.

It was difficult enough trying to write a eulogy that didn’t sound… overly honest. 

“Coming up with something _original_ to say is always the hardest part,” Starscream drawled.

Because life went on no matter what personal disasters were occurring for Knock Out, Skywarp needed her sutures removed. Knock Out had wanted the opportunity to check in with Starscream anyway, as photos only showed so much regarding the recovery of her mouth. Although she was pretty sure she’d have heard about it if they hadn’t, she was pleased to see in person that her lips were recovering well. 

They were back out at the old country house that had once belonged to Starscream’s doomed third husband. It was more welcoming in the daylight, at least once you got past the fence. Those huge old-fashioned windows let in a lot of light, and the warm wood of the floor boards shone under it.

When she arrived, Skywarp was sprawled on the same ivory leather couch, but she looked a lot better this time: no blood, and no hovering stormy-faced Thundercracker. Her feet in their bright purple boots were propped up on the coffee table—at least until Starscream made to walk right through the space her legs were occupying, which happened about three seconds after she saw her boots on the table.

“Doc!” crowed Skywarp cheerily when she saw her, jerking her legs out of Starscream’s way at the last second.

Skywarp’s attitude towards—everything really—seemed to suggest that she wasn’t a person who would go out of her way to take good care of her stitches. Despite this, they’d been very well taken care of. 

The injury looked as neat and clean as Knock Out might have hoped, although the pigment would probably stand out on Skywarp’s dark skin when it scarred. That, too, would fade over a longer period of time.

Starscream threw herself into the seat opposite. She kept going: “As I was saying, originality. One always has to talk about how the dead were _loved_ and how they’ll _be missed_ , but sooner or later it becomes repetitive.”

Knock Out hummed to show she was listening. Starscream had given a lot of eulogies. She probably knew what she was talking about. 

“Oh, is this about Pharma? Make sure you say she ‘gave endlessly to those around her’,” Skywarp suggested. “I like that one. Super vague.”

“She absolutely did not do that,” said Knock Out flatly. 

Skywarp snorted as though this was hilarious. Which it might have been, had they not been talking about Knock Out’s wife of more than a decade.

Starscream made a noise halfway between a breath and a laugh.

“Well, lie then,” said Skywarp. After a second she added: “Duh.”

Knock Out smiled briefly. “I thought I’d try to talk about how hard she worked,” she offered.

“That’s a nice way to spin it,” Starscream said, detached but encouraging. 

Knock Out had wanted not to speak at all, really—to say she was just _too_ distraught, to let someone else eulogise the coldest and most distant wife in the world. 

But it had become rapidly obvious that there was _no one else._

Ratchet, the distant cousin, hadn’t spoken with Pharma in a decade. Even though, it transpired, she still lived in the same city. _Drifted apart_ , she’d said, gruff and not terribly friendly, over the phone. 

If Knock Out didn’t speak, the next most intimate relationship Pharma had was the strange and slightly hostile one with the legal counsel contracted by her company—Knock Out wasn’t sure what was going on there at all, but had dutifully notified her personally, by email when she couldn’t get through on the phone—or her assistant. 

If Knock Out thought of her own death, she would have been _mortified_ if nobody but the secretary at her rooms had a kind thing to say about her. _Especially if she were married at death_.

And of course Pharma was proud. She’d never liked to be embarrassed.

So Knock Out had a rough outline, comprised of headings like ‘how we met’, ‘Pharma’s virtues’, ‘a great patron of the arts’, and ‘ she will be missed’. She just had to find ways to fill them out, which was proving difficult. As much as her death freed Knock Out from contemplating the miserable reality of marriage to Pharma for the foreseeable future, the new relative freedom also brought all her resentments to the fore. 

Steve, for example. Knock Out had told Steve not to come back after the month was up. She discovered she hated bloody marys, and didn’t know why she’d had them for years—except that Pharma liked them. She didn’t like Steve’s cooking at all. Pharma had. _Knock Out_ wanted a cleaner who’d actually get the streaks off the bathroom mirrors, and who wouldn’t miss shards of glass on the floors. 

Steve had taken it gracefully, and Knock Out would pay out the rest of their contract for the year. But it was one of many things that she was just now discovering had been compromises she hadn’t liked, but hadn’t wanted to argue about. 

_At least this is the last time you’ll have to coddle her ego_ , Knock Out thought to herself, and then felt wretched for thinking it. Even though it was true.

“Is there gonna be an open bar at the reception?” Skywarp asked, flexing her arm.

Knock Out waited for her to stop moving the arm before she continued with the next suture. 

“Yes. Of course.” Not only would Pharma have wanted it, but Knock Out didn’t know if she’d get through without. “If there’s _not_ an open bar, I’ll scream.” Especially given the price tag for the whole dreadful business.

Starscream hummed. 

“Oh, nice,” said Skywarp. “We’ll be there, obviously—” Less obvious, Knock Out assumed, without the bar. “—but it’s good to know what kind of snooze-fest you’re in for, right?”

She didn’t bother to pretend she was offended. “Yes.” 

It _would_ be boring. And horrible. And Knock Out was going to have to accept condolences from an array of people she didn’t really know, and stand up straight and not listen to the nagging guilt that lived in the dark alleys and underpasses of her mind for hours upon hours. 

The only part of the funeral Knock Out was looking forward to was seeing Breakdown. She wasn’t about to say so to Skywarp, though. 

Really, it was hard to think about the funeral without also thinking, however peripherally, of Breakdown. 

Despite the anxiety of notifying all necessary parties and writing her eulogy and sorting out the events company for the reception, and despite the emotional pressure of Pharma’s death hanging over her, Knock Out remained _extremely aware_ that the funeral would be the next place she’d see Breakdown. 

She had already texted her the information. Calling, obviously, would have been too much. She knew this. And at the time, she’d dithered over it for ten minutes, and then spent nearly an hour trying to word a single text message. 

She’d received a _Great! I’ll be there_ , in response, followed by a slightly confused-seeming, _I mean, not great, terrible, I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ll be there._

Both sentiments had warmed her, made her smile a little. 

When she was done un-stitching Skywarp, she allowed Starscream to convince her back into her disused, sprawling kitchen area for a drink. 

“Hypothetically,” she started, looking thoughtfully at a dressing on Starscream’s wrist that she had not placed there, while the other woman poured her a drink. Champagne and orange juice, this time—lower alcohol and suitable for day drinking, she guessed. It went down very easily.

“Hypothetically…?” Starscream prompted. She brought her glass to her mouth. Her lips looked plush, soft and inviting, but it was not immediately clear that she’d had work done. Knock Out took a moment to quietly congratulate herself. 

Right, right, Knock Out had been thinking. She looked into her glass instead of staring directly at Starscream. She disliked the way orange juice left little bits of pulp on a glass.

“It’s pretty unacceptable to meet up with someone new at your spouse’s funeral, I suppose,” Knock Out said, aborting the ruse. What was the point, anyway? Who could be bothered having shame in front of _Starscream_?

“Mmm,” Starscream hummed. “Both very unacceptable and a very good opportunity,” she said, without even blinking. “People find displays of _emotional vulnerability_ attractive.” She said ‘emotional vulnerability’ like she’d heard of it, once or twice, and thought it was some kind of particularly virulent illness. 

Undoubtedly, any such feeling displayed by Starscream in public would be insincere. 

“It’s tacky,” she concluded. “But it’s not like Pharma can stop you.”

She topped up Knock Out’s glass and slid it over.

“Hm,” said Knock Out.

“Someone in mind?” Starscream asked, with deliberate casualness. 

“Oh, yes,” said Knock Out, not looking up from the glass. “I’m afraid very much so.”

“Ah Well. Congratulations.” Starscream tipped her own glass in her direction. “To futures richer and brighter than our pasts.”

After a second’s pause to digest that deeply callous blessing, Knock Out thought _what the hell_ , and then tapped her own glass gently against Starscream’s. 

The _clink_ sounded loudly in the big empty kitchen. 

“Let’s hope so.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rapid updates this weekend! please make sure you read in order, oops.

Knock Out had a lot of black in her closet, but she still had to pick carefully. She was the grieving widow here, and everyone would be looking at her. Everyone looked at Knock Out in regular situations, of course—how could they help themselves?— but there would be even more scrutiny today.

So she dressed with care, both because she was hoping to see Breakdown there, and also because she wanted to put on a good show for the attendees. Unfortunately these motives called for two very different displays: she did not pick out silky matching lingerie for the _funeral-goers_ (a thing done with more hope than expectation). Likewise her conservative black dress was not exactly a _first date_ look. 

She took her time with her hair and makeup. And in the end, she decided that one couldn’t really go wrong with diamonds, even if a string of saltwater pearls might have looked more appropriately demure.

Pharma had been an atheist, and so the funeral ceremony itself was held not at a religious building but instead in a space that had been rented and appropriately decorated for the specific purpose—a process Knock Out had left up to the events people at the events company.

Charr & Daughters had what their website had termed ‘a variety of interests’, in everything from the races to the local fast food scene. The events management company was a subsidiary, with a small but well-connected team.

They had been expensive, had come recommended, and had also been the only events company operating in the prefecture at all. 

Even the funeral parlours had outright stated that they did not take on any duties outside of the preparation and transport of the body. The only other business doing anything like a funeral service was the local Church of Primus. And when Knock Out had searched for alternatives, she’d mostly run into a) some out of town companies willing to come and set something up in the area, and b) _strange conspiracy theories_ about the odd owner of the company.

“Galvatron? No, mother rarely gets involved with anything of this scale,” the woman she’d spoken to had said over the phone when Knock Out had asked for a quote. It had been her only clue that she was in fact dealing with one of the daughters of Charr & Daughters. “This is a routine project, we have a lot of experience with this kind of thing.”

Someone else might have found the woman’s disinterested affect insensitive, but Knock Out had mostly found it comforting.

She arrived and pulled into the car park next to the building. When she stepped out of the covered car park, squinting in the sun and reaching for her sunglasses, she was met by the representative who she’d spoken to on the phone. They’d had three or four telephone conversations and no few emails, but Knock Out hadn’t actually laid eyes on her before.

Cyclonus did… not look as she’d expected. On the phone, she had sounded stern, competent, no-nonsense. In person, she was surprisingly… frilled. She was tall, very tall, although her boots couldn’t have been more than two inches with their curved little louis heels. Her hair was immaculately dyed in a subdued shade of purple and pulled up with a silver pin, and she was buttoned up in an elaborate dress all the way from her ankles, right to the charcoal-grey lace of her high, stiff collar.

She looked at Knock Out over the thin steel rims of her spectacles. 

“It is good to meet you in person,” she said, formal and grave.

“Yes, you too. Thank you for your hard work.” Knock Out smiled winningly. She shook her hand, feeling as though she was about to be reprimanded for doing something naughty—or perhaps given a detention.

She followed the solemn lady inside and found a light-filled hall with stark white walls and floors of broad black stone. The far wall of the room was draped heavily in black and white, and before the wall was a surface set up specifically to receive the coffin. Seemingly every other surface groaned beneath the weight of a tremendous number of lilies and white roses and carnations.

“Once they move the coffin to the grave side for the burial, the room will be rearranged?” Knock Out asked, just to double-check. Her voice seemed very loud in the quiet of the empty hall. 

Cyclonus nodded. She checked something on her phone. “Yes. When attendees return from the graveside, everything should be set up. I’ve also worked with this catering company many times in the past. They’re consistent.” 

Knock Out nodded. 

The body arrived, in its fancy casket and in its fancy car. Then people started to arrive in dark-clothed little knots, talking lowly. They trickled in and Knock Out put the casket between herself and them, hoping to put off any conversation for as long as possible.

The funeral was nice, for a funeral. Of course it was also thoroughly unpleasant by virtue of being a funeral at all. 

The casket remained closed, owing to the state in which Pharma's body had been found. 

Knock Out did not remember the eulogy she gave. Her tongue felt numb and heavy, and as she spoke to the assembled crowd their faces seemed to blur into a smear of faces in an array of colours, dotted haphazardly above conservative dark clothing like a uniform. 

She started crying somewhere in the middle. She wasn't entirely sure why, unable to pinpoint the emotion that made her do it. As far as she could tell, she didn't feel a thing... 

They took the body to the cemetery, where Knock Out had laid out an absurd sum for a nice plot, and she stood, staring blankly while the coffin while it was lowered into the ground. 

Even while the others attendees huddled around the plot with their significant others or families, here was nobody for Knock Out to stand with. She watched them begin to shovel the dirt over what remained of her wife, and felt cold, numb, and spectacularly alone. 

When they returned to the hall to find it had indeed been transformed in their absence, Knock Out began to feel as though she could see the light at the end of the tunnel: she had only to get through the wake, and she probably only had to make sure she was there for an hour or so, just enough time to make sure everybody had seen her. 

She could no longer put off conversation.

Knock Out spotted people she knew and people she knew of. There were even one or two people Pharma had known through her work who were wholly unknown to Knock Out. Every single one of them told her, specifically, how sorry they were for her loss. Most of them touched her. Some touches were worse than others: 

First Aid, of course, came dutifully to her boss's funeral. She seemed like such a sweet thing, and was somehow capable of dredging up a few tears for Pharma. She took Knock Out's hand and let her know to call if there was any help she needed whatsoever.

Knock Out guiltily and secretly wondered if perhaps First Aid was feeling worse than she was. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said with a hiccough, wiping her eye. "Weddings and funerals, I just—always."

Knock Out didn’t have the energy for it. "It's all right,” she said, without inflection.

“Sorry,” First Aid said again. 

The company's solicitor showed up, too. Knock Out had expected it, knowing that this was one of the few friendships Pharma had actually had. But she had not met Tarn before, and her overall impression was that she didn't want to meet her again. 

"Doctor. This must be a _tremendous_ loss to you," Tarn said. She left a lingering, too-intimate touch on her arm. Her fingers were cool and delicate, and peculiarly calloused.

She had a low, husky voice, surprisingly melodious. Her hair was a dramatic, inky black spill, tumbling over one shoulder. Beneath it, and her immaculate make-up, Knock Out almost didn't notice the wicked scar on her cheek. She thought someone who didn't pay attention to people's skin probably wouldn't have even seen it. 

"Yes," said Knock Out stiffly, trying not to pull away too obviously from that whisper-light touch on her arm. "I understand you were close with Pharma as well." Although heaven only knew why. "We shall have to do our best to get on without her."

Tarn was apparently also someone who valued intense, slightly creepy eye contact. "I expect so." 

Knock Out tried a smile.

Tarn smiled back. Her teeth were very white. 

Alright then. 

" _Excuse me_ ," Knock Out said, and extricated herself at speed. 

She veered towards Starscream, who had shown up with, for some reason, that huge woman Megatron. That seemed ideal at that moment: if Tarn pursued her, she'd just sidle around behind Starscream's... date? Did people take dates to funerals?

“Wonderful eulogy,” Starscream said to her. She must have had a whole wardrobe of funeral-appropriate clothing by now, but Knock Out noticed she was wearing a very familiar pair of white and red shoes. “This must be a difficult time for you.”

“Yes,” said Knock Out.

“Mmm,” Starscream said, not sounding very interested. “I think you’ve met Megatron?”

Knock Out licked her teeth, looking up—and up—at Megatron’s face. The scar on her throat stood out starkly above the collar of her dark shirt. 

“I think so,” she said. It would have been hard to forget her big, scarred hands and the way Starscream’s furniture had creaked beneath her grip. She still looked every bit like the human equivalent of a fortress.

“It’s always a shame to lose a partner,” said Megatron. She looked bored with her surroundings, but when her gaze narrowed on Knock Out, she felt as though she’d been examined right down to the bones. 

Knock Out looked between Megatron and Starscream. There was something tense and wary about them both, and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. 

“It is,” she said slowly. Megatron nodded, and didn’t try to touch her, thankfully. She resumed looking around, uninterested in but somehow distracted by her surroundings. 

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Starscream said, “you’re almost through it.” Her smile (a luxurious curve of her full and painted lips, Knock Out could not help but notice) was more reassuring, which was in itself sort of a red flag. 

“Hey,” Skywarp surprised her by hurling an arm over her shoulder, a sudden shock of contact. Her hair was several shades brighter than Cyclonus’s, and her makeup included purple eye-shadow and dove grey lips. “Nice party, right? Do you think you have any more shoes?”

Thundercracker removed Skywarp’s arm and distracted her with a bright red drink and a curly straw. Starscream shot her another red, slightly-too-sincere smile over the rim of her champagne glass. 

Knock Out smiled tightly back and turned away. She didn’t know what was going on among them all—but it wasn’t her job to know that, today, and she preferred not to know what Starscream was up to on any given day if at all possible. What she needed to do right now was make sure she’d been seen by everyone who needed to see her.

Who was left? She drifted through the throng, nodding and thanking anyone who came to tell her they were just, _so sorry_ about her loss. She hadn't seen Breakdown yet, she thought, leaning away from another conciliatory hand upon her back.

The cousin, Ratchet, was almost exactly as Knock Out remembered from her distant attendance at one of the other doctor's presentations: broad shouldered, with iron grey streaks in her hair and a stubborn jaw. She was clearly uncomfortable in her dark skirt suit, and just as clearly determined to ride it out. 

"I can't say I expected this kind of turn out," Ratchet admitted. "But it's a good thing, isn't it. I'm glad she has so many friends." Her eyes definitely lingered on Starscream's little knot of increasingly rowdy women. 

Knock Out did not bother to mention that many of the people present had come pretty much only for the open bar. 

Ratchet's much younger partner, Drift, looked around like she'd never been to a funeral before. She was cute, in an athletic, wiry sort of way. Her hair had red stripes in it, and she was wearing what looked like constituent items from three different suits, all of subtly different shades of black.

She introduced herself warmly, but she seemed bemused to distraction by the staff who came by to offer them wine and tiny fancy pastries. Knock Out noticed that she never refused the tiny bite-sized foods, even when it meant juggling two things in napkins, but she didn’t touch the wine.

“I haven’t been to many formal funerals,” Drift said, smiling, with a savoury canapé in one napkin and the world’s tiniest little layered sponge cake in the other. Despite this, she projected a great sense of serenity. “But it’s so nice to honour those who can no longer be with us, isn’t it? I'm sure she's watching, and of course she’ll always be with you.”

_I hope not_ , thought Knock Out. 

“That’s an interesting perspective,” she said, instead. 

Ratchet snorted softly. “That’s diplomatic.”

“Be nice,” murmured Drift. 

“I’m plenty nice,” muttered Ratchet, sounding actually incredibly grumpy.

They seemed apt to settle into domestic bickering, which Knock Out wasn’t sure she could stomach, so she left them, too. 

“That’s Megatron,” she heard Drift say, as she was leaving to be anywhere else. Her tone did not register as entirely pleased. “I’m surprised to see her here.” But if Ratchet had any response, Knock Out wasn’t close enough to hear it. 

A short server, bright-eyed and young enough to get away with bleaching her hair unrelieved white, paused to offer her a canapé, a minute circle of pastry with a strong cheese and two berries on top.

Knock Out’s stomach alerted her to the time the moment she laid eyes on the food. And then she was ravenous. 

“Thank you,” she said, perfunctorily, and shoved one in her mouth so she could free her hand to snatch up a second one.

This moment—while she was shoving tiny pastries into her face—was, of course, when she turned around at the squeak of someone's dress shoe, braced for more half-sincere condolences, and found Breakdown standing right there behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the broader universe of this setting, there are several things going on that intersect at roughly this time, but Knock Out is way too self-centred to pay attention to them. It made this chapter something of a challenge for me, because if I write about those other things, I do want any reader to be able to look back to the timeline set by this fic and think: 'ah, yes, I see'! However, I think that this chapter is as done as it's going to get. 
> 
> The rest of this fic has been easier, because the focus narrows once again. Phew. Assuming no disasters, it will be finished this week. Feel free to leave me a comment if there's something in particular you liked here. :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> were you waiting for some cute kobd shit  
> me too...  
> me too.
> 
> (Rapid updates this weekend...! If you have just clicked on 19, please check that you've seen 18 from last night.)

Knock Out blinked. 

Breakdown blinked back.

“Um,” said Breakdown. “Hi.”

Suddenly Knock Out’s mouth was much too dry to swallow what was in it. She coughed, and clenched her teeth just so she didn’t spray minuscule pastry everywhere. Her eyes watered. 

With her free hand, she held up one finger to indicate she needed a second, then turned aside to forcefully swallow the food in her mouth. Then she coughed. 

_Oh, very attractive_ , she thought to herself. At least her mascara was waterproof. 

“Are you all right?”

“Yes—just, uh, just fine. Excuse me.” She cleared her throat. Again.

Then she did not shove the second pastry into her face, although her stomach very much wanted her to.

“Hello,” she said, balancing her pastry on its napkin as though this alone could ward off embarrassment. “Do you—?” she waved the pastry at Breakdown. 

Breakdown looked at the pastry. 

“Never mind,” said Knock Out, and dropped it unceremoniously on top of a pile of lilies. “I’m glad you could make it.”

She was. Seeing Breakdown, even in this awkward way, had already lifted her spirits. 

“Of course. I wouldn’t have missed it. I am really sorry about Pharma,” she said. Once again, she seemed very sincere. “You gave a really nice eulogy. I had no idea she was so dedicated.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t remember giving the eulogy. She barely remembered the last four hours of her life. She wasn’t even sure when Breakdown had arrived.

Breakdown wore a very average off-the-rack suit and a white shirt, but at some point she had pulled the jacket off and carried it slung over one shoulder. Her collar was open and her sleeves were rolled up. She looked… flustered. And very cute. 

“Thank you,” Knock Out said. She opened her mouth again to say she didn’t want to talk about Pharma, at all, ever again, but closed it at the last moment. “It’s been… a long day.”

Breakdown’s fingers twisted in the fabric of her suit jacked. “I’ll bet it has,” she agreed quietly. 

Her shoulders seemed tense, and her gaze shifted from Knock Out to the other people around them over and over. 

Knock Out frowned. This was all wrong. She didn’t want to talk to Breakdown like this. And surely she’d done enough by now?

“Breakdown. Step out with me,” Knock Out said. 

She didn’t give any reason, but Breakdown followed her willingly anyway—indeed, she gave the impression that she’d have followed Knock Out into an incinerator if she’d asked. 

Knock Out liked that. She glanced over her shoulder as she held the door for Breakdown to follow, and found her gaze riveted to her back. 

She raised her eyes when she saw Knock Out looking, and made a soft noise, questioning. 

_I like how you keep your eyes on me_ , Knock Out chose not to say. Instead she smiled, feeling unaccountably nervous. 

When the door closed, the sounds of the reception became dramatically muffled. Back here, there were grey concrete walls and low ceilings and flickering, caged halogen lights. The steps led out to the car park beside the venue, where Knock Out had left her car. 

It was a bright red sports car, impossible to miss amid the whites and silvers and blues and blacks of the other vehicles in the car park. She leaned against the door and sighed deeply, letting her shoulders relax at last. 

“What a _day_ ,” she muttered. 

“I’m sorry,” Breakdown said, standing only a few steps away and watching her still. There was a tiny furrow of concern in her forehead. Perhaps she’d get lines from doing that over and over, Knock Out thought, as she got older. But she wasn’t even thirty yet. “It must be… really stressful. All those people seem…”

“You noticed,” Knock Out said, and then laughed, not particularly nicely. “Yes, I’m not sure if Pharma actually had any friends. Even her family didn’t want to come.”

Breakdown looked supremely awkward. 

Knock Out felt a little guilty for oversharing then. Sometimes honesty was just self-indulgent. She reined it in, with effort. “It’s all right, they’re getting drunk now, and they’ve all shared their condolences—they won’t miss me now.”

“You’re heading home?” Breakdown wondered. 

“Mmm… Probably. The staff will pack up and take care of everything. They’ll just send me the bill for any incidentals.” There was no way _all_ Skywarp's glasses would survive intact.

“Oh.”

“But I did want to make sure I had time to see you,” Knock Out said. She pushed off from the side of the car and stood up straighter. She held out a hand to Breakdown. “Come on, don’t look so shocked.”

“Ah. Well, I didn’t want to—um, it’s your wife’s funeral, so.” Without finishing any of these sentences, Breakdown did take her hand. Even that felt wonderful. It wasn’t just the warmth of her, or her much bigger palms, or the rough skin or the strength in her hands, although all those things were nice. It was also that Knock Out had reached out, and she had _responded_ , freely and willingly. Any lingering anxieties from that careful rejection weeks ago dissipated like smoke on a breeze. 

Breakdown gave her hand up without question, and Knock Out took it and drew her closer. She could never have budged her by main strength, but Breakdown followed her gentle tug. 

She smiled helplessly up at her, and felt gratified but not surprised when Breakdown smiled back.

“No, I definitely wanted to see you. The highlight of a very long day,” Knock Out promised.

“Oh.” She still sounded shocked. She took a step closer, a soft tap in the echoing car park. 

Breakdown was taller than her and larger in so many ways, and when she put her hands around her waist, the circle of her fingers nearly _closed_ around her middle. Knock Out kind of hoped that the hungry little noise she made was only internal, but she suspected otherwise. 

“You could lift me up like this easily,” she murmured, sliding her own hands along Breakdown’s forearms. Her shirt were rolled up to the elbow, and didn’t conceal the subtle shift of muscle in her forearms. Knock Out felt along them with her fingers, then scratched gently with her nails. It was nice to have her hands on Breakdown's skin.

“Uh,” said Breakdown, who seemed much more focused on the slow slide of Knock Out’s hands up her arms than what she was saying. 

Knock Out squeezed gently at her biceps, and felt the involuntary flex of the muscle under her hands in response. _Hnngh._ God.

Breakdown licked her lips. For a second her lower lip looked glossy in the light. “You’re not… very big.” It sounded halfway between a question and a statement. “Pretty sure I’ve carried boxes heavier than you.”

“Mm-hm,” said Knock Out. She felt herself swaying forward, closer to Breakdown, like a puppet drawn on a string. She could smell her: detergent, inexpensive shampoo, something sweet on her breath. 

Knock Out bit her own lip. Breakdown’s eyes dropped to her mouth.

“You, um, you smell really good,” Breakdown said. Then, a split second later, she added: “Oh, no, that was a stupid thing to say.”

“It’s not stupid,” Knock Out said, automatically, without even thinking about it. If she had thought about it before opening her mouth, her response would not have changed. Firstly, Knock Out enjoyed receiving compliments and had no problem accepting any and all kinds, no matter how silly. Secondly— “You’re not stupid.” 

“Um,” said Breakdown, flushing fiercely, right across her cheekbones. It made the freckles stand out just a little. She laughed, sort of incredulous, a little nervous. “Wow.”

Her hands flexed on Knock Out’s waist, fingers changing pressure. Knock Out felt it right through the fabric of her dress and shivered. She swallowed hard. 

Knock Out teetered onto her toes despite her already high heels, bracing herself upon Breakdown’s shoulders. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Yeah,” said Breakdown, adorably.

So she did. _Finally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more! one more.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been updated quite quickly with chapters 18, 19 and 20, so make sure you're on the right chapter! Cheers.

Knock Out pushed her whole body into the front of Breakdown’s and just enjoyed the contours and the warmth and the connection of her through their clothes. She felt Breakdown sigh quietly against her. 

But, ah, it really couldn’t stay soft kissing for long. Both Breakdown and Knock Out had wanted one another since the very moment they laid eyes on each other. It was one thing to wrap herself inside Breakdown’s arms and breathe her in and kiss her and kiss her and kiss her—but having wanted her, and now that she seemed to _have her_ , Knock Out wanted more of her. 

She didn’t want to linger on over polite little kisses and through-the-fabric touches. She wanted Breakdown to touch her. Thoroughly. Extensively. 

Blindly she opened the door behind her. 

"Are you," Breakdown started. 

But Knock Out was already scrambling backwards across the back seat of the car, hiking the skirt of the demure black dress she was wearing up without a care for how she was crushing it. 

Breakdown stopped talking entirely mid-sentence, looking very like her whole brain was occupied with staring at the stark black lace of her garters against her creamy thighs. Knock Out could track her eyes as they followed the straps up under her matching panties to their belt. 

This was, of course, exactly why she—anyone, really—wore delicate stockings and lacy little garters instead of pantyhose: to evoke this specific tongue-tied reaction. And Knock Out loved being appreciated. Really she did. 

But the tension low in her belly throbbed and nagged at her. 

There was such a thing as appreciating with one's hands. 

"Breakdown," she ordered. "Come here and _touch me_." 

Breakdown unfroze herself in record time and clambered in right after her. The door slammed shut with a thump, boxing them in together in the cramped space. 

Breakdown was huge, and Knock Out felt tiny, delicate and dainty beneath her big moving shadow. Although she was careful not to crush her, the leather seats sank beneath her knees and her hands, and Knock Out could feel a hint of the mouthwatering weight and solidity of her. Her breath caught in her throat. Tension coiled in her belly. 

Breakdown smelled like clean laundry and some kind of distinctly unfeminine deodorant, which weren’t usually sexy smells to Knock Out, but which seemed unaccountably irresistible when combined with the smell of her hair and her skin. 

In a sudden rush of heat she wondered what it would be like if she told Breakdown to physically hold her down—to pin her, with all her tremendous weight and power, and gently keep her there while she flexed against her hold… 

She already knew that Breakdown would do what she was told. 

Her next words only further confirmed it: "How do you want...?" 

Knock Out smiled. Maybe it was a little too beatific. It made Breakdown’s eyelashes flutter nervously. 

"Kiss me," she said. "And put your hands on me." 

Breakdown hesitated. Knock Out prodded her until her she shifted her weight and gave up one hand, and then she took it, twined their fingers, and kissed the back of it firmly and carefully. She left a soft red smear behind. 

For a second Breakdown seemed blindsided by the gentle gesture. Then Knock Out pushed the straps of her dress down her shoulders with one hand and a wiggle and shoved Breakdown’s hand down the collar. 

There was a squeak, which was very cute of her. But she certainly didn’t move her hand when Knock Out let go, either. 

“Um, I can—” 

“Yes,” Knock Out said, impatiently. Even the light pressure of Breakdown’s fingers through the lacy cup of her bra was pleasant. Knock Out wrapped her arms around her and drew Breakdown’s head down, inexorably down, until they were kissing again. 

Her mouth was soft, faintly sweet from whatever she’d had at the reception. Knock Out was pretty sure that her own mouth just tasted like expensive wine and tiny pastries. Her tongue was gentle, almost polite—holding back, like Knock Out was the delicate one—but she still groaned like an animal when Knock Out sucked on it. 

Her hand on Knock Out’s breast gave a short (and much less polite) squeeze, which just made her arch encouragingly. 

“Can—” 

“Yeah. Yes.” As it was clear to Knock Out what she wanted—the same thing anyone with eyes wanted, obviously—Knock Out didn’t even make her finish asking: she pulled away, twisted her arm beneath her and unsnapped her own bra blindly. “Come on.” 

There was no more half-fearful holding back then. Breakdown pushed her, somehow effortlessly, further up the seat—she braced one hand against the door behind her head—and buried her face between her breasts while Knock Out laughed knowingly. 

Then she caught her breath. It had been a very long time since anybody had really touched her in this way, and she’d almost forgotten how exquisitely sensitive she could be. The gentle scrape of Breakdown’s teeth around the rosy peak of a nipple was almost— _almost_ —too much sensation at once. Quite involuntarily, she made a tiny little growl in her throat. 

“Too much—?” 

“No. No. I—it’s been a—” _long time_ , but Knock Out chose not to finish the sentence. “Do it again.” 

She did. Knock Out squeezed her thighs around Breakdown’s thick waist and groaned at the tight, sharp sensation. 

“You’re so _soft_ ,” said Breakdown dreamily, apparently directly communicating with her boobs. 

Alright then. “Yes, they are. Thank you,” said Knock Out. “Come back here and kiss me.” 

She did, although maybe a little reluctantly—which was just good taste on her behalf, after all. 

Knock Out tugged Breakdown’s shirt out of her trousers one-handed. Her other hand was entangled in her hair, scraping her nails along her scalp and eliciting little shivers. 

She slid her hand along the soft dip and curve of Breakdown’s waist and her belly. She dragged her nails, very gently, over the skin and felt Breakdown grunt against her mouth and shudder wildly, so sweet and so responsive under her touch. 

“You’re _cute_ ,” Knock Out muttered breathlessly between kisses, which was probably a little less filtered than it should have been. Not every woman wanted to be ‘cute’ under such circumstances. It was just as well that Breakdown made a little noise in response and went back to kissing her with renewed enthusiasm. Undoubtedly the next foolish thing Knock Out might have said would have been revealing. 

Their greedy kisses and groping were urgent and warm, and Knock Out had been ready to fuck Breakdown weeks ago. It took only minutes before she was restless and craving, and she dragged Breakdown’s hand from her nipple—which, yes, felt very nice—over her crushed clothes and down to cover her vulva through her underthings. Her clit felt tight and swollen already, and Breakdown’s hand, even just the warm flat pressure of it through the silky fabric, felt absurdly huge and present. 

“Oh,” said Breakdown, like this was somehow shocking to her. Knock Out tensed, but then she went: “Oh, wow, you are. _Really_ wet.” 

Her hand rubbed, slow and experimental. 

Knock Out made a soft strangled noise. Her skin felt hot and between her thighs she was absurdly slippery. Breakdown wasn’t wrong. 

“Mmn! Yes. I am _really_ wet,” she agreed, between breaths. Breakdown kissed her again. She knew she could orgasm like that, eventually: the tight heat was already spreading through the structures behind her clit, through her hips. She clenched. 

Then Breakdown moved her hand away for a moment, and Knock Out almost stopped kissing her to complain, but it was only to shove her panties away. Then it was all fingers, very gentle, playing between her thighs—carding through her pubic hair, sliding with maddening softness and brevity over the sharp, electric sensitivity of her clit. 

Knock Out grunted and rocked into her. 

"Come on, come on," she growled, clutching now at Breakdown. No part of her could actually be moved by just Knock Out's own strength, too big and too much stronger. 

“Tell me how,” Breakdown said, dipping one of her fingers very gently inside her. It felt much bigger than it actually was—it had been a very, _very_ long time—and Knock Out flexed her thighs and rolled into the touch. Fuck. 

“Nngh,” said Knock Out, eloquently. There was a building, coiling pressure low in her guts that was _already_ hot and overwhelming. 

Breakdown licked the shell of her ear, a sudden bright rush of unexpected sensation. She curled her fingers into Breakdown’s hair and clenched her hand into a fist, eliciting a sharp breathless noise which she would have to _investigate in detail later_ , and used her grip to drag Breakdown into a kiss once more. 

"Ah," she grunted, clutching at the swell of Breakdown's biceps beneath her shirt. Her fingers dug in and she jerked her hips. "Like that," she gasped. "Like that—!" 

"Yeah," mumbled Breakdown, right into her neck with her lips pressed against the skin, breathing out a damp rush of air that made washed across her bare breasts and made her shiver all the way down to her toes. "I've got you." 

She did exactly what Knock Out had said: she didn't speed up or press harder, just kept exactly the same stroking motion of her fingers, catching her clit just the same way with each motion, and Knock Out groaned harder and louder every time. The sensation curled up into a hard knot of pleasure within her. Her insides clenched hard, and then so did the rest of her: long and sweet, muscles firing. Orgasm dragged her right under, huge and overwhelming and Knock Out made loud, shameless little animal grunts between her teeth while she rode it out. 

When her thighs stopped shaking and she seemed to have control of all her limbs and her eyes focused again, she exhaled: "Fuck." 

She was breathless, boneless, sagging beneath Breakdown's steady hands and careful attention. She could feel sweat trickling down between her breasts, which rose and fell with each breath. 

"Yeah?" Breakdown said, carefully extracting her hand from between Knock Out's thighs. 

She was smiling, a pleased little thing, dark hair in her face. She was flushed. The freckles were cute as hell. She was very pretty when she smiled. 

Knock Out was feeling very well disposed towards her right then. 

"Mmm, yes," said Knock Out, curling into the heady, blanketing warmth of her body. "That's. Very good. Yes." She drew a dark strand of hair out of Breakdown's face. "Will you come home with me?" 

"Wh... _now_?" Breakdown said uncertainly. She wiped her fingers on her shirt and glanced over her shoulder, back towards the venue. "What about…" 

"You might get away with going back in there looking like this, but I won't," Knock Out pointed out. 

She knew without even looking that her clothing was crushed and her hair was a mess from being rubbed back into the leather seats when she'd rolled her head back, gasping. The makeup she could reapply, but the rest was pretty unsalvageable. 

It would be worse to return to the reception looking like this than it would be just to bail halfway through. Leaving early could be attributed to being upset and overwhelmed, at least. 

"Oh," said Breakdown, looking at her clothes at last. "Erm, sorry." 

"Oh, don't be," she said, smiling invitingly. She still felt delicious. Like a cat in sunshine. "All in the service of a good cause. Come with me, I want to be able to lay you out on my bed properly." 

Breakdown's lashes fluttered when she blinked, long and dark. She swallowed. Her face was very red. 

Knock Out knew, intellectually, that there were plenty of reasons why Breakdown ought not to: she hardly knew Knock Out, she'd certainly driven here in her own vehicle which she would have to fetch later, she'd almost certainly get fined for parking overnight— 

" _Yeah_ ," said Breakdown. 

Knock Out's smile widened, victorious. She touched Breakdown's mouth with her finger, tracing the contours gently. Her lips were so soft. Mmm. 

"Wonderful. I'm going to take _such_ good care of you," she purred. Very gratifyingly, Breakdown shivered for her. 

What came next was a very unsexy climb into the driver's seat, which Breakdown wisely didn't even bother to attempt. She went back inside to the reception for three minutes to grab her jacket. Knock Out let the engine warm and used the time to wipe off her smeared makeup and begin reapplying it in the rear vision mirror. 

When Breakdown returned—and slid into the front seat, this time, making the car rock gently under them—she was touching up her lipstick, which had disappeared somewhere between Breakdown's mouth and hers. 

She touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of her ring finger, eliminating the tiniest smudge of bright red. 

"I’m not sure what was going on in there. It seemed like people were getting kind of, uh, argumentative.” 

Knock Out hummed as though she cared and was considering it, but she absolutely was not. 

“You left these," Breakdown added, handing over her sunglasses. 

"Ah. Thank you. You ready?" She smiled. 

"Yeah." Breakdown smiled back. She was desperately cute. Knock Out wanted to consume her entirely. 

And in about twenty minutes, she was going to. 

In the distance, something banged loudly, which they both ignored. 

"Wonderful,” said Knock Out. 

She unfolded the arms of her glasses, perched them back on the bridge of her nose, then dropped the hand brake.

Then Knock Out pulled them out onto the road and hit the accelerator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual I am very excited to finish any fic!
> 
> If you enjoyed something about this one, please feel free to drop me a comment and tell me. Otherwise, you may find me on [tumblr](https://cardio-vore.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/fascination_ex).


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